Kill the Heroes

by David Thurlo

  “No video of the delivery?” Charlie asked.

  “Not that we know of, not yet. Apparently there’s no camera coverage outside the wall. Local officers are canvassing people in the area, business owner and such, and asking for help on social media. This was on Corrales Road, which has regular traffic, so maybe someone in a passing car saw the guy toss the envelope. Whoever is doing this is keeping a low profile.”

  “You involved?” Charlie asked as his cell phone began to chime.

  “Corrales officers and Sandoval County deputies are handling it,” Nancy said. “Go ahead and answer that.”

  A minute later, Charlie ended the call and looked toward the office. He waved at Gordon to come over, then turned to Nancy.

  “Mr. Koury’s son has disappeared,” he announced.

  “You sure about that?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Maybe. According to Dawud, Caleb left school early to avoid an after-school fight threat, deciding to walk home. The boy had called Dawud to let him know, but now Caleb’s phone keeps going to voice mail. Dawud doesn’t want to leave his wife alone at the market, and his part-time employee has the afternoon off…”

  “So Mr. Koury needs your help,” Nancy said.

  “Exactly. I’m going to track down Caleb and give him a ride. We’ve met, and I think he’ll trust me,” Charlie said. “Cibola High is just across the river. I can get there in ten minutes this time of day.”

  “What’s up?” Gordon asked, coming up to join them.

  “Dawud’s son may be in trouble and I told our friend we’d check it out. Caleb was going to walk home, but now his dad can’t reach him on the boy’s phone. You think Ruth and Jake will be safe here?” Charlie asked.

  “I’ve got to talk to Ruth, so I’ll be here for a while anyway. Go!” Nancy ordered.

  Two minutes later they were on the road, this time in Charlie’s Dodge Charger.

  “We have any idea what route Caleb will be walking?” Gordon asked, his phone out with a map app on the screen. “I’d recommend we follow the most direct route from school to home. We’ve both been at the Kourys’ so I’ll have the app show me the way.”

  “Yeah, but we’ll start from the high school. If he got jumped, that probably happened right away,” Charlie said.

  “Did Dawud call the school?” Gordon asked.

  “He didn’t say,” Charlie answered, turning onto Alameda Road, which led across the bridge to the west. The high school was only a few minutes beyond the river, off Ellison Road.

  They drove slowly past Cibola High School, on their left, noting the student parking lot full of cars. A few yellow school buses were pulling into a loading zone, but classes didn’t let out for another half hour, according to what Charlie had learned.

  “Riding a bus must be tough for high school kids, you think? All that pressure to be cool and have a car, or friends with a car,” Gordon speculated as they drove west.

  “Back in Shiprock when I was in school, most of the kids, especially the Navajos, rode the bus. Low income and all that, plus so many kids lived twenty or more miles away out in the sticks. It was okay if an older brother or sister dropped you off, but riding with a parent—that wasn’t manly at all,” Charlie admitted. “Peer pressure is probably a lot worse now.”

  “I walked to school back in Denver, but my friends stuck together. Lots of perverts and drunks on the streets in my ’hood.”

  “And gangs?”

  “Yeah, but they didn’t hassle you in the mornings, I guess it was too early after hanging out all night. But if you had to go back to school in the evening, or stayed for athletics, it could be rough.”

  “That’s when you learned to defend yourself?”

  “Boys’ Club saved my ass, and one of my teachers lived across from our apartment building. Until I learned some skills, he kept me alive. One night he got shot walking home. I wish I’d have been there to have his back.”

  Charlie shook his head. “You’d have been shot too, Gordo.”

  “We’ll never know.” Gordon looked at the phone. “Turn here,” he nodded to the right.

  Charlie drove into a nice middle-class neighborhood with similar-looking, two-story, single-family homes placed less than twenty feet from each other. There were no power lines or telephone poles on these streets, all the wires and cables were underground.

  “Barely any vehicles in the driveways or along the curb. No junkers, and nice and clean. I wonder if everyone is at work,” Charlie observed. “Nobody on foot, so either he’s between houses or standing in one of the recessed entryways.”

  “He could have gone another way, of course, or ran like hell and is farther ahead.”

  “You watch your side. If you spot any residents outside, let’s stop and ask if anyone’s seen a kid passing through.”

  “Suppose Caleb knows anyone in this neighborhood?” Gordon asked.

  “This is in the school’s district and Cibola has a lot of students, so it’s likely. But I got the idea that Caleb hadn’t made a lot of friends, and Dawud reported that Caleb said he was alone,” Charlie answered.

  “So we’ll cruise the ’hood. The backyards are all walled in, but there’s a utility easement that we can’t see from here. If I was hauling ass away from school on foot, I’d take that route. You’d be invisible to anyone cruising the streets looking for you,” Gordon reminded.

  “You’re right, city boy,” Charlie affirmed. “I’ll turn at the next intersection so we can get in position to see down the alley.”

  The street ran for a dozen or more blocks created by several intersecting streets just along the west side, before finally reaching another road that went in the right direction. They stopped and looked south. To the east was a long, empty flood-control canal, and along the west side of the canal was that easement. The dirt utility road curved back and forth—the houses following the undulating terrain rather than a straight line—so they couldn’t see the entire length of the route.

  “Drive down the easement, Charles,” Gordon suggested.

  “Yeah, unless he’s already gone past this point.”

  “If he’s already made it this far, chances are he’s alone and probably safe,” Gordon said. “If he’s gotten into a fight, he could be hurt somewhere along the way, maybe even got tossed into the ditch.”

  “Here goes, then.”

  The unpaved easement was in good shape, with recent tire tracks from utility vehicles or joyriders, and at the halfway point, they discovered a small enclosure in the cinder-block walls located between adjoining properties that contained some kind of electrical transformer protected on three sides by the high walls.

  “There he is!” Charlie said, slamming on the brakes and raising a cloud of dust.

  Caleb Koury was in a corner, fists up, facing three young men. Book bags and papers were strewn across the dirt.

  Gordon was out first, closest to the enclosure. “Walk away, guys. Get back to school before the cops arrive.”

  “Screw you, shorty,” yelled one of the teens, a sturdy-looking linebacker-size seventeen-year-old who stood a head taller than Gordon. “You get the hell out of here before you get hurt. We’re teaching this Arab a little respect for America.”

  “Quit talking trash and walk away, brain dead,” Gordon warned. “You too,” he added to the other two teens still blocking Caleb in the corner.

  Charlie came around the front of the Charger and got their attention instantly. He was taller than them all, and had on his mean face. “Want me to hold your weapon while you crack a few skulls, Gordon?” he suggested, sliding back his jacket enough to show his holstered Beretta.

  “Louie, they’re carrying!” one of the teens exclaimed.

  “Hey, Mr. Henry,” Caleb greeted, managing a weak smile. “Just let them go.”

  “Or we could beat the crap out of them,” Gordon said, grinning now.

  “I’m outta here,” one of the two in the back called out. He turned, grabbed the shoulder strap of a book bag,
then stepped out and began walking down the easement in the direction of the school.

  “Wait up!” the other one yelled, grabbing another bag and hustling away.

  “Well, son, it’s just you and us now,” Charlie said, stepping up beside Gordon. “What’s it gonna be?”

  “Who the hell are you, anyway?” the young man exclaimed, his voice now a little shaky despite his size.

  “Your friend or your worst enemy. It’s your call…”

  “Louie. Louie Edmonds.”

  “Good to know you, Louie Edmonds. We done here?”

  Louie nodded, then started looking around for something.

  Caleb stepped up and handed him a book bag.

  “Thanks,” the big guy mumbled, then turned and hurried to join his two companions, who were waiting about fifty feet away.

  “Thanks for finding me, Mr. Henry, and Gordon, uh, Mr. Sweeney. Did my father send you?”

  “No. We volunteered. He couldn’t get you on your cell, and with all that was going on, he didn’t want to leave your mother alone at the market,” Charlie said. “Or bring her with him if they’d be heading into trouble. I talked him out of closing the shop, then said we’d give you a ride.”

  “My father is very protective of our family. He didn’t want me to go to school today,” Caleb said, bending down to examine an open backpack on the ground. The contents were scattered, including notebooks, pencils, and two books.

  Gordon and Charlie joined him, picking up the supplies. They were quickly stowed in the pack, which had been torn open at a zipper. “What happened to your cell phone?” Gordon asked.

  “When my classmates jumped me, they tried to take the phone. I threw it over the wall into the backyard of that house,” Caleb said, pointing to his left.

  Charlie stepped back out of the enclosure and looked at the eight-foot-high wall. “I hope the residents don’t have a dog,” he mumbled, jumping up and pulling himself to the top of the wall.

  He glanced at the rear of the house, where there was a covered patio with a small mosaic tile table and chairs. Fortunately no one was visible, neither man nor beast, so he dropped down into the backyard. Quickly he found the phone atop some landscape bark, put the device in his jacket pocket, then leaped up and pulled himself back over the wall, landing in a crouch back in the alley. “This it?” he asked, handing Caleb the phone.

  “Yessir. How’d you make it over the wall so easy at your … well, thanks again,” Caleb said, checking the phone’s display.

  “At his advanced age? Charlie can barely walk.” Gordon chuckled, handing Caleb a Sharpie he’d found on the ground.

  “You’d have needed a boost, or a ladder. Shorty, is that what Louie called you?” Charlie said, smiling.

  “I could have made it in a single bound,” Gordon argued. “Did you get all your stuff, Caleb?” he added, turning to the teen.

  Caleb took a quick glance around, then stared down the easement in the direction of the high school. The ones who’d cornered him were out of sight now, apparently having cut between two adjacent houses and onto the street to the west. “Good to go. That the expression?”

  “Your English is nearly perfect,” Charlie mentioned, walking toward the Dodge.

  “Before Christianity was banned, both my parents learned the language from their parents. My sister and I were taught at home,” Caleb explained. “But I’m still discovering what my father calls street English.”

  “I grew up on that. You’ll learn,” Gordon commented as they climbed into the car. “Okay, now tell us what went down this afternoon.”

  * * *

  A half hour later, Charlie circled the block, then drove into the alley and parked in his slot beside the loading dock of FOB Pawn. “What do you think that threat of fire meant, coming from the supposed terrorist?” he asked, stepping quickly out of the car and moving toward the loading dock, key in hand.

  “The idea of a flamethrower sounds ridiculous, but a car bomb, maybe, or their house or apartment set on fire?” Gordon responded, looking everywhere except at Charlie as he followed him up the steps.

  “Hopefully not my place. That house has taken a beating since I moved in, and I bet Nestor is thinking that renting it to his cousin was a really bad idea,” Charlie said.

  They were inside, the door closed, less than five seconds later. Charlie glanced toward the office. It was empty, but he could see Ruth and Jake in the main room, working together at the front register with customers. There were two other people standing, waiting their turn to be served.

  “Looks like FOB OK is working,” Gordon muttered, then headed out to greet the people waiting, motioning them toward the second register at the back counter.

  Charlie started forward to help out, then the phone in the office rang. “I’ve got it,” he called out. He was almost disappointed to find out it was a business call.

  * * *

  Charlie left with Ruth to pick up Rene at school while Gordon and Jake took care of business. Once the three were back, that allowed Jake and Gordon to leave for the day. Rene stayed in the office, doing homework and reading, while Charlie and Ruth dealt with the final client of the day and closed up the shop.

  Charlie had checked back with Nancy just before closing, and there was no news of any incident that might be related to another attack. Then Ruth called Deputy Marshal Stannic. At least there was progress being made. Three men suspected of helping Lawrence Westerfield escape were apprehended in New York, but those arrested claimed that they’d split into two groups, with Lawrence and another man headed for Canada. Those captured were ex-cons carrying five thousand dollars cash, payment they claimed came from one of Lawrence’s stashes. There were no other leads concerning Lawrence, and no description of the man with him, but at the same time there were no reports that he’d been on any form of public transportation since his escape.

  The threat against the local heroes took almost all of the law enforcement agencies’ attention, but at least the various agencies had been given photos of Lawrence and an ATL bulletin—attempt to locate. The identity of the man with Lawrence remained a mystery.

  Charlie and Ruth decided that Westerfield was probably hiding somewhere back east, possibly in a remote or rural area, and that his mention of Canada was just a ruse. Lawrence was obsessed, and if he still had access to money, Charlie had no doubt he’d come for Ruth. She, however, was worried about Charlie, not herself or Rene.

  When they finally left FOB Pawn, they decided to go somewhere for dinner, then Charlie could take them home and stay until late. At that point, they’d decide if he should return to his own place or sleep on the sofa again.

  Charlie chose one of his favorite north valley restaurants, a popular place with locals that served New Mexican fare, but more importantly, had a congested parking lot filled with old cottonwood trees and narrow rows for vehicles. The shooter would have to get up close, risking being seen, and there were plenty of cameras covering the grounds. So far, even the envelopes he’d dropped containing the threats had been left at locations selected because there was no camera coverage. Basically, Charlie felt they were safe in a well-lit, crowded environment.

  As Charlie pulled into the closest parking slot he could find, he noticed a pickup behind him, also apparently looking for a parking place. Glancing into the rearview mirror, he realized something looked very familiar about the driver.

  The man cocked his head slightly to the right, a signal that dated back years ago, in Afghanistan, and sent a chill down Charlie’s spine. It was Russell Turner—CIA—and the fact that he’d allowed Charlie to spot him was a message. Turner would be watching over them tonight.

  “Something wrong?” Ruth asked, glancing in the side mirror.

  “No. I guess the guy behind us was thinking we were getting ready to leave, and was waiting for us to pull out,” Charlie hedged, looking back as the truck passed by.

  “It looks like they have a good customer base here. The lot is almost full. You don’
t think we’re being watched, do you?” she added.

  Charlie shook his head, wishing he could talk openly, then recalled how his parents often began conversations, and then stopped abruptly when they knew their children might be listening. He’d have to remember Rene was in the backseat. The boy had spent much of his childhood living in secrecy, and Charlie didn’t want to bring the anxieties connected to that back again for Ruth’s son.

  He climbed out quickly, took a quick look at the other patrons in the lot heading toward the entrance or their vehicles, and circled around to join Ruth, who’d climbed out on her own. He’d been raised old-school, his parents were from a time when gentlemen opened doors for ladies, and didn’t know how Ruth felt about that.

  Rene was out by now as well, and Ruth took his hand, turning to greet Charlie. “Thanks for coming around, Charlie, but I think we need to get inside.”

  He had his backup pistol, a small .380, in his pocket, having left the more capable Beretta in the Charger. With his concealed carry permit, he wasn’t worried about breaking any important laws. The place had a liquor license, but he never imbibed while on a security detail, no matter how pleasant the company.

  Charlie took Ruth by the hand, and together they entered the restaurant’s lobby. After leaving his name with the hostess, they found seats on a long wooden bench, waiting for a table. Soon Charlie’s cell phone rang, showing only the number.

  “This is Charlie,” he answered, already aware of who was calling.

  Turner spoke softly. “There is no indication that this is anything but a lone-wolf attack, though the shootings have been praised in the Middle East by the usual idiots. I’ll be keeping an eye on you tonight, but stay focused. Don’t get too distracted.”

  “Okay, Al. Say hi to your wife and kids for me, okay?” He hung up on Turner, annoyed that the CIA man needed to remain anonymous, and he had to mislead Ruth again.

  She smiled. “Your brother checking up on you?”

  Charlie put the phone away. “Something like that.” He noticed Rene had leaned over and was looking into the room to the left—the bar and lounge.