Not Before Midnight (Sheriff Bud Blair Oregon Mystery Series Book 5)

by Rod Collins

Al-Alwani turned quickly, reaching for a gun he’d placed on a chair beside him. He stopped when Butler triggered a round that punched through the back wall. Bound by the metal walls of the container, the concussion hammered Al-Alwani, and his ears rang from the explosion of the pistol round.

  “What do you want?”

  “Keep your hands up and walk away from the weapon, or the next round punches a hole in your head.”

  Al-Alwani raised shaking hands in the air and asked, “Who are you?”

  Butler was suddenly struck by the absurdity of the question. He started laughing and sputtered, “What the hell difference does that make?”

  “I know that laugh. You’re Yoseph, aren’t you?”

  Butler eased inside the container, squeezing between the Audi and the wall. He stopped when he was ten feet from Al-Alwani. “I’ve come to end your career, old buddy. You crossed the Rubicon when you started kidnapping our women.”

  Butler saw Al-Alwani’s eyes shift back towards the gun, and he started laughing again. “Prison or death. Do you want to be a martyr? Go ahead. Either way, you’re done. No more cocktails, no more expensive cars, no more sex parties.”

  Butler set his phone on the trunk of the Audi and started the recorder. “Now then, let’s go over it. Tell me how you started. Give me the names of your operatives, and I’ll think about letting you live.”

  “You’re crazy, Yoseph. I’ll do no such thing.”

  Butler shot him through the right hand, the concussion hammering them both. Al-Alwani jerked his hand down, grabbed it with his other hand, and yowled. Butler laughed, shaking his head. “Huh, uh. Keep ‘em up.”

  Within five minutes, Al-Alwani was bleeding from both his right hand and his left foot … and he was talking. When he tried to avoid a question, Butler would threaten to shoot him again. To Al-Alwani, blood dripping from two bullet wounds, it sounded more like certainty than threat. And since he wasn’t interested in being a martyr, he kept talking.

  Finally, satisfied the iPhone carried as much confession as he was likely to get, Butler turned the camera on Al-Alwani. “And this is what you get when you extend student visas. Rock on, sanctuary cities. Rock on.”

  He left Al-Alwani face-down on a cot, handcuffed to a tie-down welded to a padded railing in the container. He wiped his fingerprints from the phone, placed it on the hood of the Audi, waved at Al-Alwani and said, “Ciao, asshole,” before slamming the door and sliding the latch into place.

  He fired up the pickup and drove to the alley at the far end of the compound, then parked behind the last row and watched until he saw Brandt and Wilcox slide to a stop at the gate. He thumbed in Brandt’s number on a burner phone. When Brandt answered, Butler said, “I left you a little something in the seventeenth container of the second row from the wharf. That’s on the right as you travel west. There’s an iPhone on the hood of an Audi in there that might be of interest. Better hurry before your gift bleeds to death.”

  He heard Brant say, “Wait, Butler, you should come in.” Butler shook his head, and killed the call.

  When he could see Wilcox and Brant, guns drawn, sliding the latch back on the container, he walked to his pickup, drove down the backside of a long row of shipping containers, and stopped at the gate.

  The guard saw him coming and stepped out of the shack. Butler stopped, rolled down his window, and said “Let me out, please. My colleagues can handle it from here.”

  Chapter 55

  Posse

  THE SOUND of multiple police sirens converging on the courthouse drew people to the sidewalks and window fronts. Sonny pulled up to the curb in front of the Lakeview News building, after Carol Connor flagged him down.

  Without preamble, she said, “Karen called. Said a big gang of bikers is coming to break some prisoners out of jail.”

  “Right. Can you pass the word and tell people to stay off the streets? They should be here in the next few minutes.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  He shifted into Drive and shouted, “Gotta go.” He hit the siren and pulled back into the street.

  The wail of sirens stopped, and Bud’s grim-faced deputies trooped through the front door. He looked at Karen and said, “Forward all calls to Emergency Services and go home. Now.”

  Her hands shook just a wee bit as she picked up the phone and punched in the numbers to forward phone calls. On her way out, she stopped, walked up to Bud, and hugged him hard enough to squeeze the breath from his lungs. “Don’t you get hurt, Bud Blair.” She turned and ran out the door before he could see the tears in her eyes.

  District Attorney Howard Finch and Judge Tom Lynch pushed through the interconnecting door to the courthouse. Lynch said, “What’s going on, Bud?”

  Bud pointed in the direction of the small conference room that served the sheriff’s office. “Let’s gather. We don’t have much time.”

  City Police Chief Augustus Hildebrand barged in, followed by his two-man city police force. “Don’t start without us,” he said and then looked out as a dark blue van wearing the Warner Creek Correctional Facility banner double parked. Superintendent Bob Blankenship and four armed correctional officers jumped out the back of the van and crossed the sidewalk to the sheriff’s office, AR-15’s at port arms.

  Bud looked at Roger. “You and Sonny get our prisoners out here. We’re sending them to Warner Creek. The rest of you come with me.”

  ***

  Bud did a head count and started writing names on the blackboard. Without turning around, he said, “This is what I want each of you to do.”

  “Roger: rooftop of the courthouse with your .308”

  “Sonny and Larae: block F Street at Bullard. Use shotguns. I don’t want pistol or rifle rounds punching holes in civilians.”

  “Gus, stake out the road into town. Let us know when they cross the railroad tracks, and then just follow them into town.” Same orders for your team … use shotguns. Okay, Gus?”

  Gus nodded. “Okay, Bud.”

  Howard interrupted. “What are you going to do with the bikers?”

  “In a minute, Howard. Let me get this set up.”

  “Lonnie and Beatrice: block F street at the SW corner of the courthouse. Same drill … shotguns.”

  “Bob, I want you and your Warner Creek folks to stick with me and Deputy BeBe. Everyone gear up. If you’re not wearing your vest, I’ll shoot you myself. Guaranteed.”

  He turned to Howard. “Okay, Mister District Attorney. To answer your question, I’m going to arrest them for any number of crimes, starting with creating a public nuisance, threatening a police officer with bodily harm, spitting on the sidewalk, and for violating the city’s noise ordinance.”

  Gladys McKnight, long-serving Lakeview mayor squeezed into the conference room. “I heard that. We don’t have a noise ordinance.”

  “May I suggest that the city council passed one late last night?”

  Gladys’ eyes clouded. She frowned and didn’t say anything until Tom Lynch, the silver-haired rancher, turned county judge, said, “For crying out loud, Gladys. Do I have to spell it out?”

  Gladys brightened and said, “Oh. Oh, I get it. Yes. Yes, we did. Yes. Last night. I’ll get the council to go over it again right away. Just to make sure it’s in force.” The room filled with chuckles as Gladys pushed her way to the door of the conference room and down the hall.

  “Howard,” Bud said, “see what else we can charge them with. I want to process each one. Odds are good that at least a half-dozen are guilty of parole violations or have outstanding warrants.”

  Howard nodded, but his forehead was furrowed in a frown. “You can’t just make up the charges. They have to do something first.”

  Bud looked sideways at Howard, eyebrows raised. “Are you getting cold feet?”

  “No, but I want something solid to work with.”

  “You will have what you need, Howard. You will.”

  He looked at the crowd, pointed at the clock, and said, “That’s the best I can do
on short notice. Any questions?”

  When no one spoke up, Bud said, “Judge, why don’t you evacuate the building, let everyone go home?”

  “Already underway, Bud.”

  Bud nodded. “Good.” He made eye contact with each officer in the room, trying to determine how steady they were.

  One of the officers from the Warner Creek Correctional Facility said, “It doesn’t seem real. Out here? In Lakeview?”

  Bud said, “Doesn’t to me either.” He paused and said, “Now then, we also have a Klamath Falls SWAT team on the way … and maybe the state police. But for now, we are it. Set your radios to our tactical channel and get going.”

  Bud watched the officers head down the hallway, except for the Warner Creek Correctional team and BB. He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this is Deputy Sheriff Dell BeBe. BB and I are old friends from our days working for the Portland Police Bureau. Now, what BB and I are going to do when the bikers arrive is this…”

  Chapter 56

  Busted

  SPECIAL AGENT BRANDT stepped out of the container and called for an ambulance, while Wilcox tended to Al-Alwani’s wounds. He used two gauze pads from the big first aid kit and a long strip of tape to bind the shattered hand. But when he started unlacing the bloody shoe on Al-Alwani’s left foot, all it earned him was a kick in the shin.

  Wilcox shrugged and moved away. “Your funeral. Bleed to death. It’s all the same to me.”

  Incredulous, Al-Alwani shouted, “He shot me! I can’t believe it. He just shot me. Twice!”

  Wilcox laughed and said, “He must be a terrible shot. Almost missed.”

  “I need help.”

  “Listen. You cooperate or my partner and I will just lock you up in this tin can and ship you off to Yemen. And then you can tend to your own wounds. Got it?”

  Al-Alwani swallowed, his Adams apple bobbing up and down, and with tears in his eyes, he nodded.

  “Good. Now … who shot you?”

  “Yoseph. He’s FBI, but I don’t know his name. He’s just Yoseph to us.”

  “Us? Who is us?”

  Al-Alwani stifled a groan and took a deep breath. “Please. If Osama finds what I’ve done, he’ll kill me.”

  “But you haven’t been doing this alone. Who helped you? Tell us and make it easy on yourself.”

  “You already have the recording. I’m not saying another thing until I see my lawyer.”

  “No lawyer, stupid. You’re a foreign national involved in human trafficking and terrorism. You’ll see Gitmo before you see a lawyer.”

  “You can’t do that! They’ll kill me in there!”

  “Your tough luck. You didn’t show any mercy to the women you kidnapped. Why should we show you any?”

  “Because I can help you stop the next attack.”

  Brandt walked back into the container and said, “Ambulance is on the way … along with your boss and mine.” He glared at Al-Alwani. “Just for fun, I thought you should know we arrested your girlfriend. You no longer have an inside contact at the FBI. She’ll be going away for a long, long time.”

  “What about Yoseph?”

  Brandt and Wilcox looked at one another and each shook his head. “Nope,” Wilcox said. “He’s not one of ours.”

  The sound of a siren drifted up the alley between the tall stacks of containers. They followed it in their minds until the siren stopped. “At the gate,” Wilcox said.

  Wilcox set his cell phone to record, took out his pistol, and said, “All right, asshole. Talk or I’m going to shoot you in self-defense. What terrorist attack are you talking about? Help us and we might get you a ticket back to the big sandbox.”

  “Unless I shoot you first,” Brandt said.

  After Butler’s second shot splintered the bones in his left foot, Al-Alwani knew beyond doubt that all FBI agents were crazy – crazy enough to shoot him again. He didn’t want to be shot again. Ever. So, in a quavering voice, Al-Alwani told the story of a terrorist plot to kill thousands of people in the Portland metropolitan area, Muslim as well as Christian people. Black as well as white. Arab and American. Anyone and everyone.

  When he stopped talking, Al-Alwani looked up, frightened by the rage painted on Wilcox’s face and the big black hole of the pistol barrel aimed at his forehead. He didn’t know if Wilcox was deciding to kill him or not. A tense thirty seconds passed before a cowering Al-Alwani asked, “What happens now?”

  Wilcox shook his head to clear his mind, lowered his pistol, and then slowly exhaled before answering. “And you were going to let this happen? No warning? Just kill tens of thousands of people, including people of your own faith? I should shoot you just for that. For not giving us any warning.”

  Brandt interrupted, disgust in his voice, “To answer your question. First, asshole, we get you patched up. Then we put you in protective custody. Then you will brief some other not-so-nice agents again. You will name names. And if you don’t, we turn you over to the CIA. They have some very unusual methods for dealing with terrorists.”

  The ambulance backed up to the open door and two EMT’s squeezed past the Audi to a distraught, weeping Al-Alwani.

  The first EMT, a husky, dark haired man in his early thirties, asked, “What do we have here?”

  Brandt held out his credentials before saying, “We have a bona fide idiot who seems to have shot himself in the right hand and the left foot. My instructions are to take him to the ER. I’ll ride shotgun. This man is dangerous.”

  Chapter 57

  Flight

  STAYING WITHIN the speed limit, Butler followed Highway 30 past Guy’s Marina and the cabin cruiser he had called home, then on past the Sauvie Island Bridge and the Willamette Channel. He kept an eye on his rearview mirror, expecting to see flashing lights at any minute. He knew he had to find somewhere to ditch the pickup … and soon.

  A sign on the outskirts of Scappoose marked a bus stop near a mini mart. Butler pulled off and parked behind the store. He wiped the pickup clean and left the keys in the ignition. Hopefully, someone would steal it.

  He slipped his daypack over his shoulder, then walked around the corner of the building and across the parking lot to the bus stop. With his black watch cap, beard, and daypack, he fit right in with the group waiting for the bus … three bearded young men, two wearing worn gray-green army surplus jackets, and one wearing a black duster. A disheveled-looking woman hid her face in a tattered green hoodie with a worn U of O logo on the back of the jacket. Each carried a grimy daypack.

  Homeless, he thought. And dangerous. Two of the men were taller than his six-one, their rail-thin faces marked by acne scars. The third looked solid and stocky. Their cold stares kicked Butler’s survival instincts into high gear.

  He turned his back, shrugged the daypack off his shoulder, and slipped the Berretta 9mm into his coat pocket.

  The tallest one, who was obviously the leader and the most aggressive, stepped up to Butler. “You got any money? Me and my friends need a fix.”

  Butler shook his head. “Not much. And I need every dime I’ve got.”

  The other two flanked him, trying to box him in. The one to his right said, “Let’s see what you got in there,” and reached for Butler’s daypack.

  Butler blocked the man’s right arm with his left hand, grabbed the man’s sleeve with his right, and pulled him off balance. He tripped him and watched him stumble into the man on the left. Butler pulled the pistol from his jacket pocket and poked the tallest man in the belly.