by Alex Ander
“You know I’m always ready for a good fight, Cruz.”
Aware of his penchant for getting physical with criminals and uncooperative suspects, Cruz grinned. That’s an understatement.
“I just want to know what your plan is if this thing goes south.” He saw Cruz’s grin transition into a smile. He rolled his eyes. “So, it’s going to be like all the other times. We pull plan ‘B’ out of our butts.” Shaking his head, he drew his pistol. “Okay, let’s do this.” Ashford extended his arm. “Ladies first…lead the way.”
… … … … … … … … … …
The single-level cabin was made of old wooden planks, dried and cracked from countless years of being unprotected from the elements. Many of the boards were split at the ends. Long gaps appeared where the edges of the wood were joined. Hastily constructed patch jobs could be seen on all sides of the building, ranging from irregular-shaped pieces of plywood nailed to the sides to rags and cardboard stuck into the smaller gaps. The techniques did little to keep out the weather, and the abundant critters looking for food or shelter.
A short porch, less than a foot off the ground, jutted out four feet from the front door and spread out eight feet to the left and right. The handrails that enclosed the porch were made of a rotted horizontal two-by-four resting on several shorter vertical two-by-fours. None of the timber had been painted or stained.
Each side of the cabin had a window at shoulder-height, while the back of the building had a door and a three-step staircase leading to the ground, which sloped away from the back door. White smoke billowed out of the brick chimney on the left side of the cabin. The column drifted to the left every few seconds from an intermittent, faint breeze.
A green Ford truck with larger than normal tires and a lift kit was backed against the porch on the right side of the door. The tree line on the sides and back of the cabin was no more than twenty feet from the shack. The distance from the tree line, near the driveway, to the porch was closer to a hundred feet and the terrain afforded no natural cover. Cruz and Ashford knelt within the cover of the trees to the left of the driveway, studying the cabin and the immediate area. She had half thought about using her Charger to make the approach, but the roar of the engine would have made it more challenging to maintain the element of surprise.
Ashford spoke, his voice hushed. “It’ll be dark soon. Are we going in under the cover of night?”
Cruz shook her head. “I want a little bit of daylight left, in case this thing doesn’t go according to plan.”
“Speaking of this plan…care to share?”
She made an arc with her left arm. “You go left and take the back door. Stay in the trees as long as you can before you make your approach.” Nodding toward the cabin, she added, “I’ll be knocking on the front door.”
“What’s our R-O-E?”
“Rules of Engagement haven’t changed. We fire if they fire at us. I want them to stand trial for what they’ve done.”
United States Border Patrol agents Stephen Peterson and Marcus Lopez had been using their positions of authority to help smuggle drugs and illegal immigrants across the Mexican-American border. Their activities had been on the FBI’s radar for several months, while the agency gathered evidence against the pair. They fled a day ahead of a scheduled raid to apprehend them, moving deeper into the country, finally settling at this location.
“That being said—” Cruz plopped her hand onto Ashford’s shoulder to get his attention. “You’re cleared to go hot.” She poked him in the chest. “Be careful. These people are well-trained agents and they know how to shoot. We’re both going home tonight. Got it?” When she did not get a reply, Cruz re-stated her question. “Are we clear, Ash?”
He smiled. Cruz was four years his elder and he sometimes felt as if she treated him like a younger brother, protecting him from schoolyard bullies or reminding him to look both ways before crossing the street. If any other person had treated him that way, he or she would have been on the receiving end of a severe tongue-lashing. Cruz was exempt, however. Secretly, he enjoyed her concern for his well-being. While growing up, Ashford, the youngest of four male siblings, never had anyone to shield him from the incessant teasing from his older brothers.
He nodded and gave his interpretation of her instructions. “We shoot first, ask questions later, and go home with no new holes in our bodies...Got it.” He leapt to his feet. “I’ll let you know when I’m in position. Watch yourself, Cruz.”
Cruz shook her head and grinned, while her partner disappeared into the thick foliage. His imposing presence and sense of humor had cultivated in her mind the persona of a big teddy bear. He portrayed the image of a tough and surly man, while maintaining his fun-loving and joking demeanor.
Minutes later, her earpiece crackled.
“I’m in position and ready to breach on your order.”
“Copy that. Stand by. I’m moving out.” Cruz took one more look around the area and slipped out of the concealment of the underbrush. Crouching, she sprinted toward the cabin. Fifteen feet away from the truck, Ashford’s voice came over the airwaves.
“I’ve got movement in the house…Someone’s heading for the front door.”
Cruz darted to her right and dropped to the ground, using the truck as a barricade. As long as no one stepped too far out onto the porch, she would not be seen. The door to the cabin opened and closed. Boots scuffed along the wooden boards, creaking under a heavy weight. Thirty seconds passed. Her pulse was pounding in her head. She had no clear view of the man, but she could see smoke rising from beyond the hood of the truck. He’s having a cigarette. Okay, just finish your smoke and go back inside…No need to step off the porch…No need to…The door opened and closed again. Cruz waited.
“All clear, Cruz. Two subjects in the structure. You’re good to go…over.”
Cruz got to her hands and knees and slowly lifted her body to see over the hood of the truck. He’s gone. She raced toward the truck, stopping in front of the vehicle’s grill. Easing to her left, she peeked around the right corner. No one was in sight. She moved back in front of the grill and withdrew a folding knife from her pocket. She thumbed the blade and it automatically locked open. “I’ll be ready to go in two minutes.”
“Copy that.”
… … … … … … … … … …
Stephen Peterson closed the door to the cabin and trotted across the main room. “Get your crap together. We’re bugging out.” He grabbed a duffle bag, dropped it onto the table and started tossing in stacks of hundred-dollar bills. He paused to point at the cache of weapons and ammunition in the corner of the room. “Grab as much ammo as you can.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Lopez had joined him at the table.
Peterson jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s somebody out there. I can feel it and I can smell it.” His ten years of service, guarding the border between the United States and Mexico had ingrained in him a sense of when others were nearby. Spending many nights on patrols, he knew when people were lurking in the dark, waiting for him to move to another position, so they could sneak into the country. Eventually, he gave up and decided to make money from the activities. His choice had gotten him and his friend in their current situation.
“So, now you can smell when people are around.” Lopez stared at Peterson. “I think you’ve been on the run so long, looking over your shoulder, you’re seeing ghosts.”
Peterson stopped stuffing the money stacks and held Lopez’s gaze. “I went for a smoke and I could smell perfume. When was the last time the forest smelled like perfume?”
Lopez laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re spooked because you think you smelled perfume. That’s what this is all about?” He shook his head. “No, it couldn’t be flowers or—”
“Shut up and get the damn ammo.” Peterson zipped the duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder before checking the status of his pistol. He jumped and nearly sent a round into the floor when
he heard a fist pounding on the front door, followed by a commanding female voice.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Chapter 2: Surrounded
Special Agent Cruz issued a command, her voice as deep as she could make it. “This is the FBI. The place is surrounded. There’s nowhere to go. Come out with your hands up.”
Peterson shot a glance at Lopez and raised his pistol toward the door. He aimed left of the door, then right of it. She’ll be on one side or the other, but not in front of it. He swung the pistol back to the left. “Aw, to hell with it,” he said and repeatedly pulled the trigger, while strafing the front of the cabin. The slide locked back. He inserted a fresh magazine and charged toward the door, firing as he ran.
… … … … … … … … … …
Squatting near the stairs at the back of the structure, Ashford heard Cruz pummel the front door. Her voice travelled electronically to one ear; live to the other. “This is the FBI. The place is surrounded. There’s nowhere to go. Come out with your hands up.” He cocked his head. ‘The place is surrounded?’ It’s just the two of us.
He sprang forward and reached the back door in three giant steps. Pressing his back to the wall, he heard gunfire. Wheeling around, he put a size-twelve-foot to the door and the rickety barrier flew inward. The top hinge separated from the doorjamb and the door listed to the right. He raised his weapon and had both Peterson and Lopez in his sights. They were running toward the front door. He charged forward and yelled, “Freeze…FBI…don’t move.”
Ashford watched Lopez spin to his right with pistol in hand. He did not give the man a second chance to comply with his order, pressing the trigger when Lopez’s chest was centered in his sights.
Lopez continued his turn. Instead of penetrating his chest, the bullet zipped across it, leaving a half-inch wide trench from his sternum to his right nipple before lodging in his bicep. Screaming, he dropped to the floor and dragged himself toward the out-of-reach pistol. Flopping forward the wounded arm, his fingertips touched the butt of the weapon. Before he could grasp it, searing pain radiated from the hand and through the arm. His head reeled backward.
Ashford had stomped on Lopez’s hand with the heel of his dress shoe before shifting most of his bodyweight forward. “Marcus Lopez, you’re under arrest for the illegal smuggling of drugs, weapons and immigrants. You have the right to remain silent...”
Lopez howled, while tears moistened his reddening cheeks.
Shrugging his shoulders, Ashford handcuffed Lopez and said, “…Or not,” before informing the man of the rest of his rights.
… … … … … … … … … …
Cruz stood to the left of the door, balled her fist and rapped on the wooden door. “This is the FBI. The place is surrounded. There’s nowhere to go. Come out with your hands up.” She took a two-handed grip on her Glock and waited, her back pressed against the cabin, her left ear facing the dwelling. She opened her mouth, but before she could issue another command bullets flew out of the cabin, starting on the other side of the door, heading straight for her. She whipped her head around and dove to the right. Landing on her right side, she shielded her head and face from the debris. Splinters from the handrails flew into the air, as bullets zipped through the old wood. Having taken three rounds in her back, her chest heaved and her mind went back to an encounter during her days as an officer for her hometown police department of Dalhart, Texas.
Two years into her job with the Dalhart Police Department, she made a routine traffic stop of a vehicle with a broken taillight. The incident marked the first time she had drawn her weapon and exchanged gunfire with a criminal, who happened to be a Mexican drug trafficker on the FBI’s Most Wanted List. A bullet had grazed the surface of her leg, but she was able to capture and arrest the fugitive, shooting and wounding two of his companions. Cruz received special recognition from the FBI and the Dalhart P.D. promoted her to sergeant. Until this moment, that was the only time she had been shot.
Cruz drew a deep breath, but the pain in her chest forced her to abort the process. She settled for shorter gulps of air. The bullets had ceased flying, so she rolled onto her back and extended her firearm toward the door. She let out a yelp when her back touched the porch. Bad idea, Raychel. Continuing the roll, she propped herself on her left elbow. A second wave of gunfire commenced. More holes appeared on the door. Dust, dirt and fragments flew outward.
Digging the right heel of her black chunky one-inch high heels into the brittle planks, she scooted backwards, until she came to the end of the porch, her upper body thrust against the bowing handrail. A split-second later, the door exploded when Peterson’s bulk crashed through it. Cruz saw the slide locked back on his weapon and slid her index finger from the trigger to the frame. She shouted. Still recovering from being shot, her commands were mixed with coughs. “Stop…right…there.”
Peterson let go of his sidearm, leapt from the porch and landed in the bed of the truck. Scrambling over the side, he climbed into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine.
Cruz struggled to get to a standing position. With every movement, the sharp needle-like sensations pricked her back. Taking inventory of her injuries, she felt lucky. Ashford appeared on the porch and dashed to her side. His voice was strained when he addressed her.
“Cruz, are you hurt? Are you okay? Did he shoot you?” Bobbing his head up and down and flicking his eyes left and right, he searched for bullet wounds.
Bent over and her head hanging down, she waved him off. “I’m good. I took them in the vest.” She coughed. “I’m good.” Her left arm jerked toward the truck. “Take the left side. I’ll come up on the right.” Ashford ran toward the handrail on the opposite side of the porch, crashing through it, instead of going over it. Cruz rose to her full height, arched her back and leaned from side to side. Having cut the fuel line on the truck, she was in no hurry to go after Peterson. He was going nowhere and his empty weapon was lying on the porch. With a two-handed grip on her service weapon, she took the single step off the porch and drew alongside the right window of the truck, staying several feet back from the door.
Since getting into the truck, Peterson had been cranking the engine nonstop. Groaning, the battery hardly had enough power to engage the starter. He turned the key again, but all he heard were the commands of Special Agent Cruz.
“End of the line, Peterson.” Cruz was staring at him over the sights of her pistol. She shifted her eyes to the left. Ashford had drawn up on the left side of the truck, stopping short of creating a deadly crossfire situation between the two of them. “Exit the vehicle with your hands up.”
Peterson rotated his head to the left and stared down the muzzle of Ashford’s pistol. He swung his head back toward Cruz. His mind searched for any weapons he may have stashed on his person or in the truck—nothing. He was not stupid. He had no cards to play and he knew it.
“Hands, Peterson…I need to see those hands.” Fixing her gaze on Peterson, Cruz’s eyes narrowed. “And, if I see anything in them…it won’t end well for you.”
Ashford barked a similar command, but his voice boomed in the stillness of the quiet night. “Get out, now!”
Peterson raised his right hand, while opening the door with his left. He swung his legs outward and slid out of the seat, while Ashford took a step backward.
Cruz moved around the front of the truck, stopping at the left corner. “On your knees…get on your knees.”
Peterson was out of options, but he was not going to go out without some satisfaction. His hands at his sides, barely above his waist, he pivoted to face his female opponent. A crooked grin formed on his lips. “You get on your knees, bit—”
Ashford had advanced and driven his foot into the back of Peterson’s knee, dropping him and cutting him off in mid-sentence. Ashford followed with a blow to the back of Peterson’s head, propelling the disgraced border guard forward, until he was sprawled on the ground, face-first in a spread-eagle position. “That’s no way to tal
k to a lady, Stevie.”
Cruz lifted her head and stared at her partner.
Ashford saw her. “What?”
“You just have to hit someone, don’t you?” Shaking her head, she holstered her gun, retrieved her handcuffs and circled around Peterson.
“Hey, he shot you,” growled Ashford. “He’s lucky to be still sucking wind.”
Cruz planted her left knee into her quarry’s lower back and clamped a handcuff onto his right wrist. “Stephen Peterson, you have the right to remain silent.” She brought his hands behind his back and smacked the second handcuff around his left wrist. “Anything you say can and will be used against you…”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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