Ray and Karen were riding in the back, ready to throw themselves inside the camper’s tiny bathroom if necessary. And God help anyone stupid enough to try and dig them out of there, Ben thought.
It was warm outside, with bright sunshine and clear skies. He rolled down the window for some air and stared at the rolling countryside going past. It reminded him why he had moved to Northern California in the first place. The towering sequoias, the laid-back attitude, and the beauty had drawn him and Marie here after he returned from Iraq.
He pushed the thought from his mind. That bitch. Why am I thinking of someone who dumped me for a fucking vet, he thought. Then something in the distance got his attention.
There was a roadblock up ahead. A dozen police cruisers with flashing lights and an Army National Guard unit were diverting traffic off onto the Highway 299 exits. Ben could see they were checking cars one at a time at the end of the ramps, and then allowing them to return to the main highway. This was his exit anyway, but he knew there was no choice. He would have to try to fool the cops somehow. He reached up and adjusted his fake beard and longhair wig, and then pulled out a pistol from a shoulder holster. He checked to make sure it was fully loaded and the safety was off. He chambered a round into the gun and replaced it carefully into the holster. As he reached the off-ramp, two men in Army uniforms waved him into the growing line of vehicles. Other soldiers pointed roughly to the shoulder of the ramp, directing drivers in the line to pull to the side and stop. Ben snatched the automatic from the holster, cocked it, and then tucked it under his legs.
Back in Arcata, more than fifty officers from the city police and the California Highway Patrol had surrounded a Toyota motorhome sitting in a strip mall parking lot. They had taken positions behind their cruisers, while a S.W.A.T. team waited nearby for orders.
Sergeant Ackerman held a bullhorn to his lips. “In the motorhome!” he shouted. “You are completely surrounded! Open the door, throw out your weapons, and come out with your hands up!”
There was no response. Ackerman squinted at the motorhome for a few moments. He tapped Captain Nester on the shoulder. “Notice anything funny?”
“What?”
“That thing hasn’t moved an inch,” said Ackerman, “if they were inside that rig, it would be rocking back and forth a little bit. Especially if they were scrambling around grabbing their guns. I don’t think anyone’s in there.”
Nester peered hard at the motorhome. It sat like a stone, motionless. “Maybe so. I wouldn’t count on it, though.”
“Last chance!” said Ackerman into the bullhorn.
A soft wind blew across the parking lot.
“Open fire!” shouted Ackerman.
Officers unloaded on the motorhome with shotguns, assault rifles, and pistols. Most of the glass shattered, the mirrors flew away, and the tires went flat. It rocked back and forth under a tremendous hail of bullets.
After a full minute of this barrage, Ackerman spoke into the bullhorn again. “Cease fire!”
The shooting stopped.
“Fuck this,” Ackerman said. He laid the bullhorn on the hood of his car, drew his pistol, and walked boldly toward the vehicle, which now resembled a huge block of Swiss cheese.
“Dave, get back here!” Captain Nester shouted.
Ignoring the order, Ackerman threw open the side door of the motorhome and disappeared inside it. He came out a few seconds later, slammed the door closed, and holstered his gun. In his other hand, he held the edge of a large white towel stained with fresh blood. He waved the towel in the air.
“They’re not here!” he said to everyone. “But someone got a piece of them all right.”
Ben let his breath out in a whoosh. Man, were we lucky today or what? Northbound traffic at the exit leading to the roadblock had spilled back onto the highway for a half-mile and had grown rapidly. This had helped, since now the cops suddenly fell under more pressure to move cars through before the highway became an ocean of angry drivers leaning on their horns. Fortunately, the camper and truck had been near the front of the growing line. Two officers had approached the camper from each side, all of them with their hands on their gun holsters. Others stood some distance away with shotguns at the ready.
He had presented his drivers’ license. It was a real license, but it was a phony because it didn’t have his true name on it and the picture showed a man with long hair and a beard. He had picked it up after creating an equally phony identity. One of the cops examined the license and then called in to the dispatcher to run the name. No wants, no warrants, the dispatcher had reported.
One of the cops had walked around to the back of the camper, opened the door, and took a quick glance inside before shutting the door with a loud slam.
“Nobody back there,” he had said to the others.
They had waved him on his way. Ben could hardly believe it. He had put the truck into gear and drove away; half expecting one of the cops would shout something after him to stop. They never did. He smiled.
He slammed his fist against the back window of the truck a couple of times, a signal that Ray and Karen could come out of the closet. As soon as they reached the turnoff for the Forest Service road, he would pull over and let them back up front.
F.B.I. Special Agent Ryan McKenzie pulled into the parking lot of Guaranteed Used Cars in Arcata and shut off his engine. He turned around in his seat and looked at his two partners. “Those C.H.P. guys are a little slow on the job,” he said. “This is the only car lot within walking distance from where they found that motorhome. They should have already checked this place out, but they haven’t. Twenty bucks says our perps made a stop here and picked up another ride. Let’s go talk to the owner.”
The three men got out of the car and walked boldly through the front door of the little office. A young man about twenty-five years old sat behind the desk filling out some forms. He glanced up in surprise.
McKenzie flashed his badge and ID card from a flip-open leather case. “F.B.I. You sell any cars today?”
The flustered man could only choke out a single word. “Yes.”
“What cars? And to whom?”
The salesman started to reach for a drawer and McKenzie grabbed him by the wrist. “Don’t do that.”
“I...I was just getting out the sales records for today,” he said.
McKenzie motioned with his hand and the other two agents pulled the salesman roughly from his chair. They pushed him face-first into the wall and held him in place.
Pulling open the drawer, McKenzie rummaged around until he found the sales records. He dropped them onto the desk and examined them. “Only two sales today?”
“Yes,” said the frightened man.
“Let him go,” said McKenzie. He pointed to the paperwork. “Tell me everything you know about the people who bought these vehicles. Come on, get over here.”
The salesman went to the desk and picked up the forms. His hands were shaking as he held out one of them. “Uh, this one is from a Ford Escort I sold this morning.”
“Who bought it?”
“An old lady from town. She’s been here before.” He laid down the form and picked up the other one.
“What about that one?”
“A blue Chevy pickup and a camper. I sold it to a hippie-looking guy and his wife.”
McKenzie snatched the sales form from the man’s hand and read it carefully. There was a picture of a California drivers’ license copied onto it down at the bottom. It gave a name and the image of a man with long hair and a beard. McKenzie nodded. It’s Cummings, he thought. He handed the form to Agent Carlisle. “Get the description on this truck and camper out right away,” he said. “And then run the drivers’ license number. It’ll probably come back legitimate, but the name is a phony for sure. It’s Ben Cummings.” McKenzie spun the salesman around and pushed him back against the wall, frisking him for weapons. Then he turned him around and snapped a set of handcuffs on him, leaving the man’s hands in front.
/> “What did I do?”
“We’re holding you as a material witness,” said McKenzie. He put his face a couple of inches from the salesman’s. “Guess what, bozo? You just sold a truck and camper to a couple of cop-killers.”
“Oh, shit. Oh, God.”
“You have a security cam here?”
“Yes, sir. Up in the corner there.”
“Where’s the tape?”
“Well, it’s a DVR...in the next room. But it’s locked. It’s the owner’s office. He’s at lunch right now. We’re not supposed to...”
McKenzie took the man firmly by the collar and pushed him toward the office. “Open it,” he said.
“I don’t have a key.”
McKenzie moved the man aside and kicked the office door completely off its hinges. It crashed into a desk just inside the room and fell to the floor. “Nice office. Where’s the DVR?”
The salesman reached up with his manacled hands and pointed to a nearby shelf. His hands were shaking. “There,” he said. “It’s there.”
McKenzie unhooked the cables, pulled the power plug from the wall, and tucked the machine under his arm. “All right. Let’s go.”
By noon, less than three hours after the robbery and shootout in Eureka, law enforcement agencies from San Francisco to Seattle began to mobilize in force for the manhunt. Police helicopters took to the skies like angry bees and roared over country roads and freeways searching for a blue Chevy pickup truck with a white camper. Additional National Guard units from Oregon and Washington to set up more roadblocks. Scores of F.B.I. agents converged on Trinity and Humboldt counties in Northern California and tried to claim jurisdiction. However, the local police were having none of it and worked with the Feds only grudgingly. They wanted their pound of flesh from both Ben and the Morris couple for the cop killings. Few of these local officers had any illusions about trying to take the suspects alive. In every town touched by the rampage, the police chiefs hinted that taking the Morris couple and Ben alive was optional. A quiet order descended the chain of command and down to the officers on the street: Shoot first, ask questions later – and try not to kill any innocent bystanders in the process. The F.B.I. was not generally aware of this policy, and had they known, they would have objected to it. Not that it would have done much good. Justifiable rage against the cop-killers was spreading like a California wildfire.
Chapter 8
Ryan McKenzie passed a hand across his eyes. He was sitting in the back of a mobile F.B.I. command center – actually a converted trailer – and he was tired. It was just after sunset and there was no sign of the suspects since they had fled Arcata. How did they slip past the goddamn roadblocks? He thought.
He scanned the report on his desk. The Eureka cop wounded by the fragmentation grenade during the bank robbery had died in surgery. Not from the frag, he was told, but by a single forty-five caliber round that just missed his Kevlar vest and penetrated his lower abdomen. That made five officers killed by the trio. He was about to read the rest of the report when someone knocked.
The side door opened. “Sir?”
McKenzie glanced up and saw one of the agents who had just arrived from the F.B.I.’s San Francisco office. The man looked fresh out of the academy; a rookie, McKenzie thought. “Yes. What’s your name again?”
“Jeff Carlson, sir.”
“Sorry I didn’t remember,” said McKenzie. “There’s a lot of new faces around here today.”
“That’s okay, sir.” Carlson held up a bundle of files. “These just came in for you. The San Francisco office says they’re important.” The young agent laid them on the desk.
“What are they?” McKenzie said, picking up the files.
“Army records on Sergeant Benjamin Cummings and Captain Ray Morris. There’s also some background information on all of them, including Mrs. Morris. Nothing from NCIC, though. None of them has a criminal record.”
“Well, they do now. Thanks. You want a cup of coffee?”
“No, sir. We also got a call from a National Guard unit north of Arcata. One of their people thinks he may have let the Chevy truck through the roadblock.”
“What? How the fuck did that happen?”
“They hadn’t received the update on the truck. They were still looking for the motorhome.”
McKenzie grabbed his California map and spread it out on the table. “Goddamnit. Did they say which way the truck went?”
Carlson shrugged. “They think it turned off and headed east on Highway 299. They’re not sure. They were pulling cars over by forcing them to the off-ramp. Some went back onto Highway 101, others went onto 299. They’re not really sure which way the Chevy went.”
McKenzie studied the map. He traced a finger along the line where 299 intersected with Highway 101. Highway 299 led east across the mountains and over to Interstate 5. “Did you alert everyone about this?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve already got roadblocks set up along 299, and where 299 meets the interstate. And along all the side roads.”
“Are we still doing roadblocks north and south on 101?”
“Yes, sir. But no one has seen the truck and camper on the 101.”
“Hmm. Then maybe they got off the 101.” McKenzie noticed a large number of gravel roads on the map that cut away from Highway 299. “Come here and look. You see this? There are Forest Service roads all along 299 that lead into the mountains. They might try using them to work their way around us and back to the interstate.”
Carlson looked at the map. “Okay, I see it.” He pointed to one particular road that wound like a coiled snake through the hills and eventually came out near the Interstate 5 freeway. “You’re right. Here’s one that goes all the way through to the freeway. What do you want to do, sir?”
“Contact the Forest Service office in that area and have their rangers scour those dirt roads and keep an eye out for that truck,” said McKenzie. “Our perps might try a little off-road driving to dodge us. If they make it past our roadblocks to the freeway, and then switch vehicles, we might lose them.”
“I don’t understand.”
McKenzie tapped on the map. “Look here. You see all these Forest Service roads that go off the 299 into the mountains?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. Well someone has to cover them, and search around for any sign of that Chevy camper trunk.”
“Yes, sir. I get it now.”
“Good. Ask them to call in all their available rangers and meet you at their main office. I want you to take three agents up there and brief them. And for god’s sake, make sure you warn them about what kind of people we’re looking for and tell them to be careful as mice.”
“Where’s this Forest Service office at, sir?”
McKenzie searched along a bookcase until he found the book he wanted. USFS Northwest, it said on the cover. He flipped it open and did a quick search. “Here it is. Up by Arcata. I’ll write down the address for you. Have them meet you there, and then brief them on the situation. Got it?”
“Got it.” With that, Carlson was gone, slamming the door behind him.
McKenzie opened the Army files on Cummings and Ray Morris and started to read. Three deployments each, both men in the same unit. Once to Iraq, two in Afghanistan. A Bronze Star for heroism, two Purple Hearts. He scanned it quickly and moved on to the record for Ray Morris. He noticed Morris had received even more commendations than Cummings had...including a Silver Star. He flipped to the notes on the Silver Star and drew in his breath. Morris had been a company commander and received it for saving Cummings and some other members of his own company from an enemy ambush.
What in the hell made two war heroes like that go fucking renegade? McKenzie thought. Something set these two off somehow. Their actions were not the actions of decorated officers and NCOs who had been in combat. He couldn’t figure it out.
Ray Morris was driving the truck now, winding along a dirt road in the forests north of Highway 299. Karen sat in the middle, with Ben on the
passenger side. It was dark.
An hour earlier, they had stopped at a mini-mart gas station and spent nearly four hundred dollars on food, fuel, and supplies. No doubt, this would soon raise flags, but it was their last chance to stock up before leaving the main highway.
“See that road up ahead?” said Ben.
“Road? There are just trees.”
“Trust me. It’s a road.”
“Where’s it go?”
“Up to a camping spot I used for hunting a while back. It’s got good tree cover so they can’t spot us from the air.”
Ray stopped the truck and looked in both directions. “I don’t see a road here, Ben.”
“It’s just a spur road, an old logging trail.” He pointed left. “It’s right there, you just can’t see it from out here because there’s a bunch of small alders blocking the way. Go in right here and just run them down. The road opens up after that. Watch out though. It’s a bit rough.”
“Okay.” Ray turned off and crashed into a grove of small saplings, forcing the truck over them. After about twenty feet, a steep dirt road took shape ahead.
“Stop here and wait,” said Ben. He opened the door. “I’ll be right back.”
“What’s he doing?” said Karen.
Ray watched as Ben walked back down the rough path and started bending the saplings back up into place. “He’s covering our trail,” he said. “Pushing those little trees back up. Pretty smart, I’ll admit.”
A few moments later Ben climbed back into the truck. “You can’t even tell we went off the main Forest Service road now,” he said with a smile.
“Where to now?”
Revenge Story Page 10
