Kill the Heroes

by David Thurlo

“Let me help you with that, Gordon. We need to talk,” Charlie said, stepping out behind the counter and joining his pal.

  Less than twenty minutes later they approached the Koury house, located in a well-maintained lower-middle-class neighborhood on Albuquerque’s west side. It was only a mile from where they’d rescued Caleb from his tormenters just a few days ago. A television news crew was across the street, filming the activity, and vehicles were parked along both sides of the streets for the entire block. Charlie noted that there was an old black pickup blocking the empty driveway of the Koury house—a small, pueblo-style rental property. The American flag was still flying on a small flagpole in the yard. A few years ago Charlie and Gordon had been there, helping the Kourys move in. They’d also been invited to an outdoor barbeque the day the entire family received their citizenship documents. They’d helped the family raise the flag for the first time.

  Currently there were at least twenty people, mostly adults of both sexes, along the sidewalk in front of the house, several of them holding homemade signs or carrying American flags.

  “Where we going to park?” Charlie asked, looking down the block.

  “Leave that to me,” Gordon responded, coming to a stop just behind the black pickup.

  He honked the horn loudly, and startled several of those in the small crowd. “Park it, boys, just don’t block the street or somebody’s gonna bitch!” a husky-looking man in his thirties wearing a camo T-shirt and red ball cap yelled.

  “Ah, the self-appointed leader.” Charlie smiled.

  Gordon leaned out of the window. “Somebody move this crappy pickup before I push it down the street. I’m gonna take over their driveway.”

  Somebody cheered. “Way to go, pal!” and several people laughed.

  “Where the hell am I gonna park?” a tall, slender guy holding a sign yelled.

  “Just move that hunk of junk, Ted!” the guy in the camo shirt ordered.

  The man named Ted moved his pickup down to the next house, double parking beside another vehicle at the curb, leaving only a narrow lane in the center of the street.

  “Told ya,” Gordon chuckled as he pulled into the Koury driveway. “These people are sheep. All you have to do is point the Judas goat in the right direction.”

  Charlie nodded. “Just be aware, Gordon. The goat has a sidearm on his hip.”

  As they stepped down out of Gordon’s truck, Charlie heard a shout from somewhere behind the house.

  “That sounded like Caleb,” Gordon said. “Let’s check it out.”

  Together the two strode quickly across the xeroscaped front yard, a patterned design consisting of colored gravel and southwestern plants, then hurried alongside the garage side of the house.

  As they turned the corner and reached the thin grass of the fenced-in backyard, Charlie discovered a fit-looking man in a red, white, and blue T-shirt crouched on one knee on the lawn. He was aiming a semi-auto pistol at the back of the house, where several inches of a shotgun barrel was poking out the barely opened rear door. The crudely sprayed word, “terrorist,” had been sprayed in foot-high letters across the door and wall in black paint. Three more men, one of them a teenager, were crouched down or standing at the far side of the yard, also watching the shotgun barrel, which was sweeping back and forth.

  One of the trio was holding an aluminum baseball bat, the teen was carrying a can of spray paint, and the third guy was filming the scene with his cell phone.

  The fourth man aiming the handgun didn’t bother to look at them. “The rag head punk is just asking for a bullet. He points that barrel at me and he’s going down,” he added.

  Noting that the man didn’t have his finger near the trigger, Charlie reached over and grabbed the pistol by the barrel, twisting it down and yanking it from the man’s grip.

  The man yelled, cursed, and tried to turn and stand at the same time, wobbling off balance.

  “Stay down!” Gordon ordered, pushing him just enough to send him falling to the grass onto his knees.

  “None of you trespassers move!” Charlie ordered. “Caleb, it’s me, Charlie Henry. Gordon is here too. We’ll deal with the vandals. Stop waving around that shotgun and close the door!” he yelled.

  They heard the voice of a girl inside, and, after a few seconds, the barrel disappeared from sight and the door closed.

  “Lock the door, Caleb. You and your sister go into the hall. Stay out of sight until you hear from me again,” Charlie said.

  The guy on the ground, massaging his injured hand, tried to stand.

  “Stay down, pal, we don’t want you to make a fool of yourself again,” Gordon ordered.

  “No problem,” the man said, looking at Gordon’s waistband, where the model 95 Beretta rested in a holster.

  Charlie casually released the magazine on the semi-auto pistol he’d confiscated and let it fall to the lawn, then ejected the round already in the chamber. Sticking the unloaded weapon into his jacket pocket, he walked over to the teenager, who was tall and slender, almost his height but maybe fifty pounds lighter. The person with the cell phone continued to record the events, and Charlie wanted to take advantage of the opportunity.

  The man with the bat stood beside the kid and raised it up as Charlie got close. “Stay back or I’m going to clock you, Indian.”

  Charlie ignored him. “Make sure you get that evidence into your movie,” he said to the guy with the cell phone, pointing to the paint.

  The kid dropped the aerosol can like it was on fire.

  “Lower your slugger, pal, unless you want me to shove it where the sun don’t shine,” Charlie ordered Bat Man.

  “Now I know who you are,” the guy blurted out, bringing the bat down to waist level. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything personal, Sergeant Henry. But what the hell are you doing here, standing up for this punk Arab? I watch the news. You and your lady could have been killed at the park, shot in the alley, or burned to death just last night. Now you’re protecting the kid who’s been trying to kill you?”

  Charlie heard the sound of approaching sirens, then noticed some activity behind him. There were three more protestors, signs in hand, standing at the corner of the garage, watching. “People, nothing going on here. Let’s all meet out front on the sidewalk,” Charlie ordered. He looked over at the guy with the cell phone, who was still recording everything.

  “What’s your name, pal?” he asked the young man, who was probably in his early twenties.

  “Andy.”

  “Okay, Andy. Hang on to that phone and stick with me. The officers might want to take a look at what you’ve recorded. It’ll probably make the news.”

  Andy smiled.

  They all returned to the front yard just as first one, then another black-and-white APD cruiser came up the street. Just a few seconds behind were two SUVs.

  Gordon, who’d stopped to pick up the pistol magazine and bullet left behind, joined Charlie just as all four vehicles stopped on the street. “Here come the men in black,” he announced.

  Someone near him laughed, and Charlie turned back to look at the house. Caleb was looking out through the curtains of the living room window. “You didn’t call the Feds, did you, Gordon?”

  “Hell no, I called Detective Medina. Nancy said they were sending a couple of patrol units.”

  “Charlie, Gordon. A word,” came a familiar voice from the sidewalk. It wasn’t Nancy, it was Detective DuPree.

  DuPree kept his eyes on the suits climbing out of the black SUVs as he uncharacteristically hurried over to join Charlie and Gordon. “What’s the situation here? I need to know before the FBI moves in.”

  “Moves in for what? Arrest the protestors? That’s APD’s job, isn’t it?” Gordon asked.

  “Just be glad they didn’t call in SWAT. Tell me. Who’s inside the house?” DuPree pressed.

  “Just Caleb Koury and his sister, Justine—I think,” Charlie replied, wondering what the hell was going on.

  “Where did the extra handgun come from?
” DuPree noticed the pistol grip sticking out of Charlie’s pocket.

  “It belongs to the jock over there mad-dogging me,” Charlie said, nodding toward the man. “I borrowed it after he started waving the thing around.”

  “Borrowed?”

  “Our kind of borrowing, Detective,” Gordon announced with a grin as he held out the loaded magazine. “We’ll return it, eventually. Unless you want to check and see if it’s stolen or something.”

  “Might as well,” DuPree said, taking the weapon and magazine and sticking them into his jacket pocket.

  “So what’s the deal?” Charlie asked.

  “All I could get was that the Feds want to take the Koury kids in for questioning,” DuPree responded, glancing over at the local FBI SAC, special agent in charge, Tyler Jackson. He was a tough, broad-shouldered agent. They’d encountered Jackson before in difficult circumstances when the big black man was working undercover, seemingly part of the other side. “Are the kids armed with anything besides the shotgun? Explosives? What’s their demeanor?”

  “Pardon the cliché, but why make a federal case out of this?” Gordon asked. “All the kid did was poke the barrel of a shotgun out the back door when a vandal started tagging the house. No shots were fired, nobody that we could see actually had a barrel pointed at them, and when Charlie asked him to lower the weapon, shut the door, and stay quiet, Caleb complied. That was just a few minutes ago.”

  “Detective Medina told me that Koury placed a trigger lock on that weapon, and their children didn’t have the key,” DuPree said.

  “That’s what Dawud agreed to do when we sold it to him,” Charlie affirmed. “But if the Feds start waving around their weapons, threatening the kids in the house, and Caleb is able to fire that shotgun, I don’t know what’s gonna happen. How about if Gordon and I talk the kids out?”

  “I doubt Jackson is going to force a confrontation, he’s a smart man. But what if young Koury turns the shotgun on you?”

  “Not gonna happen,” Charlie said. “The kid isn’t a killer, and I think he trusts us. My guess is that he’s just protecting his sister and his home. They’ve been living in a dangerous environment for years, and lately it’s been getting worse.”

  “Charlie’s right on this one, Detective,” Gordon added. “And why do the Feds want Caleb? We told Nancy about our intervention when Caleb was jumped by those high school punks. Did he commit a crime?”

  “Nobody has told me a thing, but both the Bureau and Homeland plan to detain and interview the Koury kids,” DuPree said.

  “Yeah, well, I guess first thing we need to do is bring out Caleb and Justine.” Charlie said, watching as SAC Jackson huddled with three other Feds up on the sidewalk along the street. “Will you tell the suits that we can bring out Caleb—and Justine—without any problems?”

  “God’s ears,” Gordon mumbled.

  Five minutes later, Gordon and Charlie walked alongside the Koury teens’ sides as they crossed the front lawn. The crowd had been ordered onto the street, held in place by APD cops. Quickly the suits rushed up, placed cuffs on both kids, and one of them, a woman, started to pat down Justine as a male agent did the same to Caleb.

  Justine recoiled, embarrassed, and Caleb yelled, twisting away from the Feds. “Hey, get your hands off my sister,” Caleb yelled. Immediately SAC Jackson brought the boy to his knees with two powerful arms.

  Gordon stepped forward, but DuPree got between him and the Feds. “Not now, Gordon.”

  Gordon shook off the hand and turned angrily. Then he relaxed. “Sorry, Wayne.”

  “What are you charging these kids with?” Charlie demanded to the fed standing next to the detective as an APD handler and his dog went into the house. “Explosives? Drugs?”

  The agent shook his head.

  As Justine and Caleb were manhandled to the awaiting SUVs, the crowd cheered and shouted racist comments.

  Tyler Jackson came over and responded to Charlie’s question in a low voice. “They’re being detained, that’s all at the moment, Charlie. There is newly uncovered evidence that Caleb Koury has been in contact with Middle Eastern individuals or groups via the internet. His school’s IT person found some emails on one of the library computers, and Caleb Koury was signed into that device at that time. We may have found a link between him and terrorists. Now all we need to do is locate the rifle—after the house is cleared for explosives.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Gordon and Charlie watched as the Feds drove away with the Koury kids. “I think the apocalypse is near,” Gordon said softly, watching the protestors walking to their vehicles along the street.

  “From all the fear and violence lately?”

  “No. Today Detective DuPree called me Gordon. First time ever.”

  “That cinches it. Bring on the fire and brimstone. I didn’t catch your reply. What did you say when he did that?”

  “I thanked him using his first name,” Gordon replied.

  “Hmmm. Do I detect a bromance in the air, bud?”

  “Naw, that’s just steer manure from the lawn.”

  “That explains it. Well, people are leaving now since it’s dinnertime—so I guess we need to tell Dawud and Jenna what’s happening,” Charlie said, bringing out his phone.

  “Too late, here they are,” Gordon replied, pointing to a pickup coming up the street with Dawud and his wife in the cab. On the door of the truck was a sign advertising Koury’s American Produce. “Let’s get to them before the demonstrators catch on and come back.”

  Ten minutes later Charlie, alone in the Koury vehicle, an older model Ford 150, drove across the Alameda Bridge and turned south onto Rio Grande Boulevard. Gordon had gone on ahead with Dawud and his wife, Jenna, to the police station downtown. Gordon’s pickup had the extended cab, which provided plenty of room for the three. Dawud hadn’t wanted to leave his pickup behind at home or depend on someone to bring them back, so Charlie agreed to follow in the Koury truck. He’d decided to stay off the higher-speed interstate, though, because Dawud’s old pickup needed a tune-up and was running rough.

  Several miles of the northern end of Rio Grande Boulevard were posted at a 25 mph speed limit, but there was no need to hurry. Experience in dealing with APD, much less the Feds, had taught him that interviews or interrogations could take hours.

  He’d waited at the Koury home just until the place had been cleared of explosives—none had been found—then stood back as the K-9 team checked out the pickup as well. An agent had quickly emerged from the home carrying the shotgun—trigger guard still attached—and a laptop. SAC Jackson had the house keys and had offered to lock up the place and have the keys delivered to the Kourys downtown once the crime lab team had completed their search of the Koury home.

  It was still hot outside and the sun was an hour prior to setting as Charlie drove slowly down the two-lane street, flanked by low- and high-end homes of every size and shape, surrounded by grassy fields, orchards, and the occasional side street. Trees lined this stretch of the road, some of the old cottonwood limbs extending over the roadway. It was a cool, pleasant drive, with the shade from trees on the west side of the boulevard.

  There was some light traffic, with most of the vehicles sticking within 5 mph of the posted 25, but in the rearview mirrors he noticed a gray, mostly primer-coated van coming up quickly from behind. Charlie maintained speed, checking ahead for oncoming traffic. If the guy wanted to pass, it would be better now before they reached some blind curves ahead.

  The approaching van was closing fast, so Charlie eased off the gas just a little. He’d let the guy around. Checking the mirror again, he tried to get a look at the driver, but couldn’t make out a face in the glare.

  The van whipped out around him, passed by quickly, and all Charlie could see was a strange-looking driver wearing a hoodie and ball cap. Suddenly Charlie realized why the driver looked so strange—he was wearing a stocking over his head, like a mask.

  Charlie hit the brakes just as the van cut
him off, slamming into the front end of the pickup. The pickup shook violently, then skidded toward the shoulder, which gave way to a shallow drainage ditch. He felt the left rear end lifting as the right front left the road and dropped down.

  Struggling to maintain control, all Charlie could do was turn into the skid, hanging on as the truck bounced madly over the uneven ground into the narrow, grassy right-of-way.

  There was barely time to think, much less react. The pickup barreled through a wire fence, ripping loose the poles, but at least the barrier grabbed the vehicle and helped bring him to a stop after another fifty yards. Two llamas and a donkey far across the pasture started racing back and forth, panicked by the chaotic intrusion. Charlie didn’t know whether to laugh or shout, but at least he was safe and hadn’t rolled the pickup. His head hurt, and he guessed that the harsh ride had bounced the top of his skull off the roof.

  He opened the door, wondering how much damage had been done to Dawud’s pickup, then he remembered he’d just been forced off the road. He turned to look back at the street, reaching at the same time for the Beretta at his hip. That van was coming back down the street, and the driver was leaning out the window with something in his hand.

  Gun he nearly said aloud, diving out the door onto the field just as the driver fired a shot. He heard the thud of a bullet somewhere above, striking the truck. Rolling to his right, he grabbed for his Beretta. He rolled one more time, anticipating a follow-up shot. Two more gun blasts told him he’d made the right move.

  He brought up his pistol and aimed toward the road, estimating the lead he needed. Then the van passed by an oncoming SUV headed south. More vehicles were approaching, so there was no shot. Jumping to his feet, he waved at the SUV.

  The driver, a woman, took a quick look, then sped off. Maybe it had something to do with the gun in his hand. Charlie reached up for the cell phone in his shirt pocket. It was gone. He checked the ground and found it lying there not six inches from some fresh manure. He picked up the phone and called 911, then looked himself over to make sure he hadn’t rolled through the stuff. Fortunately, as with the bullets, he was lucky—except for his boots.