Enemies Domestic (An Alex Landon Thriller Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  “Zulu-5, show three in custody, suspect advised of search warrant. Mark time of entry for warrant and standby while we clear the residence.” Alex glanced at the watch on his left wrist while keeping his Glock in a two-handed, low-ready position. 2157 hours, he thought, just in time, and one less thing for the defense to ‘bitch-and-motion’ about later.

  Several long minutes passed, filled with nothing but the idling diesel, dissipating car alarms, and continued radio silence. Time to start really watching everything else now, Alex told himself. He periodically turned around to check the street and neighborhood behind him for potential threats, and saw several people emerge from nearby homes to investigate the commotion. Search warrants and SWAT teams, Alex thought, like free food and open bars, tended to bring out the neighbors. Since being confronted by an aggressive neighbor during a SWAT callout last year, Alex had grown especially vigilant to watch anyone else around him. He looked northwest to check on Templeton’s welfare, and saw the sergeant doing the same thing for him. They exchanged a quick, grateful nod before again dividing their respective attention between the neighbors, their own back, and each other.

  Another several minutes passed while SWAT cleared the residence of any other occupants, during which time Alex had nothing to do but maintain discipline, hold his position, and wait. Despite his curiosity about what was happening on the other side of the cargo truck, Alex knew his premature presence in the front yard would only earn him a righteous ass chewing from any one of the supervisors now on scene.

  “Zulu-8, radio, residence secure, code 4, send in detectives.”

  “Zulu-8, I copy code 4, residence secure, dispatching detectives.” The female dispatcher’s calming voice parroted back his directive to ensure her accurate understanding.

  “Sam-9, I copy Zulu-8 direct, you can show me, along with David-31, David-32, and Edward-2 on scene.” Sergeant Jones, aka “Sam-9,” informed police dispatch that he and the two other NEU detectives, Douglas Melner and Michele Lindsay, along with the evidence tech, were on scene. Alex returned the Glock to his right hip, closed and locked the Neon, and walked to Templeton’s Cadillac. Two more unmarked DCPD police cars and the fully marked Dry Creek Police Department Crime Scene van drove north past Alex and parked in front of the target house. The DCPD Crime Scene van backed into Franklin’s driveway, to both avoid blocking civilian vehicle traffic and to convey official police presence to passersby.

  With the target residence now secure, SWAT team members transferred responsibility for the scene and its integrity to NEU detectives. For Alex, that meant an opportunity for more cop work and overtime, which he desperately needed.

  “Need anything, sir?” Alex asked as he approached Sergeant Templeton, who was securing his seized Escalade before approaching the residence. The Team Leader, Alex knew, would be around for a while debriefing the warrant service with his team despite having no further assigned tasks at the crime scene.

  “No, I’m good, Alex. Thanks for your help. Have fun on surveillance?”

  “Big party. Gotta buy Chris a new jug, though, I don’t think he wants that one back.” After Templeton worked his key fob and a single chirp announced the Escalade’s alarm activation, the two men walked toward the front yard together.

  “He’s been so stoked over finding the truckload of cash, I don’t think he even knows yet. Just rinse it once or twice and give it back. Good work. Pound it.” Templeton smiled broadly at Alex and held out his left hand to exchange a brief fist bump. In the modern age of ever-present video cameras, Alex knew the image of cops celebrating the successful outcome of a dangerous, high-risk scenario could easily be misinterpreted by the public. “On-camera knuckles?” Templeton asked while scanning their surroundings to identify anyone recording them.

  “I haven’t seen any yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Everybody’s got a video camera that also makes phone calls.” Actually, Alex thought, it’s kinda weird that no one is blatantly filming us. As they stepped onto Franklin’s crabgrass-and-goat-head lawn, Alex saw several neighbors east of that residence standing in their front yards or on their porches, several clustered with friends and a few with a camera phone pointed toward the officers. Well, I stand corrected, Alex thought, the media’s JV team is already hard at work.

  As expected, Alex found the officers in the front yard calm, professional, and organized, and saw Franklin, Jerome, and the driver all handcuffed and seated on the front sidewalk. Alex smelled the flash-bang’s burned powder and saw the visibly shaken driver looked just as nervous and guilty as the other two. When one of the SWAT officers pulled Jesse Franklin up to his feet, Alex hastened his steps to try to help.

  “Hey, man, you got no right to search me or my house! What the FUCK, man, I don’t care what your paper says! I was jus’ chillin’ wit’ my homie when this dude shows up and asks for directions ‘cuz he’s lost! This is bullshit, man!” Alex saw Franklin pause for breath and look at the nearby officers as though searching for a sympathetic face among them. None found, Franklin changed tactics. “FUCK you, motherFUCKERS, I’m gonna get every one of you fired! Wait ‘til my attorney hears ‘bout this shit!” Now standing at Franklin’s right side, Alex held the suspect’s right arm while a balaclava’ed SWAT officer searched his left pockets. “Get your hands outta my pockets, faggot, I bet you like this, huh?” Franklin turned his head left and yelled into the officer’s ear. “FUCKIN’ COCKSUCKER!” Alex wrapped his left arm around Franklin’s head and pulled it down toward the suspect’s right shoulder.

  “Landon, I got the grape, you keep the fucker’s right arm still.” The words no sooner fell on Alex’s ears than Officer Talbert grabbed Franklin’s forehead from behind, and pulled his head up and back until Franklin stared straight up at the night sky.

  The searching officer responded calmly, as though nothing unusual had just taken place. “Yep, you got me pegged. Favorite part of my day is searching a sweaty man’s pockets and ball sack, Mr. Franklin.” Alex saw him feign a look of shock and dismay, which Franklin missed due to his stargazing position. “Stop the presses, what’s this, young Jesse? You don’t have a medical marijuana card, do you?” The officer produced a glass smoking pipe with burned marijuana residue and a small bag of hydroponic marijuana from Franklin’s left pants pocket, holding the felonious evidence out for the other three men to see.

  “Fuck you, man, these aren’t my pants. They’re my buddy’s, he left them here last night.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever worn another man’s pants, Jesse, but you can talk to the detectives, try to help them find your buddy so they can charge him with the pipe and weed.”

  Alex watched Franklin visibly deflate before them and felt the suspect’s body relax. His shoulders sagged forward, and, accordingly, Talbert slightly lessened his grip and restraint on Franklin’s head. With the apparent resolute understanding that the officers could not be provoked into using excessive force or intimidated from carrying out their tasks, Franklin appeared to resign himself to the impending consequences. Having stopped making a fool of himself, Alex hoped NEU could interrogate Franklin while he remained psychologically vulnerable. “Man, fuck you guys. This is bullshit.”

  “Alex!” Sergeant Jones yelled across the front lawn and walked to meet him. “Hey, Johnson’s looking for you on channel one. You ask him to arrest some guy for you?”

  “Yessir, Steven Murray tried to break into the Neon a bit ago. Johnson was on it quick, so I figured passing that along would just be a distraction given everything else we had going on.”

  “Well, sounds to me like you mightuh fucked up, but let’s discuss that tomorrow since you’re already on overtime. Go ahead and bounce. A couple Property Detectives are still hanging around, they can help us go through the house. Go home and see your wife before somebody else does.”

  “I really wasn’t that worried about it since you’re still here, sir.” Fuck, Landon thought, I didn’t piss in a jug for five hours just to go home now
that the skirt’s off.

  “Good work today, on this at least, keep it up. We’ll sort the Murray thing out later.” Jones extended his right hand, which Alex reflexively shook, and then walked toward the open front door of Franklin’s home. Keeping his thoughts to himself for the moment, Alex switched his police radio back to channel one, and shared a few handshakes and fist bumps with other officers and detectives as he made his way out of the scene and spoke with Officer Johnson. Good, Alex thought, he grabbed Murray trying to break into another car a few blocks away. He’ll have a whole new number to kill now, and more good behavior credit to earn.

  After dropping his gear into the Neon’s trunk, Alex texted his wife, Genevieve, to let her know he was safe, and stowed his gear to drive back toward the station. Damn, we could use a few more hours of overtime off that warrant, he thought, another month of creative budgeting coming up. Alex sighed and thought about the dark, seemingly empty home he expected to find. Genevieve often went to bed early since she lost her job the previous year and hadn’t yet found new employment. He couldn’t remember the last time she stayed awake much past sunset. Too bad there’s not a decent bar nearby, he thought, a few pints and some darts would be good right now.

  Five

  Mrs. McDougal’s residence. Dry Creek, Arizona

  Jonathan walked through his mother’s living room to answer a familiar knock at the front door. Atop that room’s light pink shag carpeting, he strode around the outdated, etched glass top coffee table; even from ten feet inside the room, he recognized his younger brother Billy through the oval, teardrop windows in the front door. Well, fuck, I can’t act surprised, I just hoped I was wrong. Jonathan saw Billy had stepped several feet back from the door after he knocked, and now faced away toward the driveway and his leaky jalopy parked there.

  Aggressively turning the handle and yanking the door inward, Jonathan saw Billy react with surprise, as though he expected a softer response from inside the home. Once he turned and saw Jonathan in the doorway, he had trouble finding his words and stayed back outside striking distance. “Holy shit, Big John, didn’t think nobody but momma was home. Wooooo, boy, you got me, uh, say, how the hell are you, brother? Still scary as ever, it seems, I, uh, guess I knew you was coming home, I just wasn’t sure, uh, exactly, when that was, uh, happening.”

  Jonathan remained in the doorway, certain Billy had no good reason for stopping over, and suspected his presence made Billy nervous because he was again here to hit their mother up for money. “Three days.”

  “Three days. Okay, uh, three days what? You’re giving me three days to, uh, what, leave town?” Billy staggered around the front porch a bit as he spoke, but Jonathan thought it seemed due to insecurity rather than intoxication. Still too early in the day, even for Billy.

  “I’ve been home three days. Just got back.” Jonathan watched a bit of relief wash over his brother’s face, as though he felt concerned he actually had but seventy-two hours to clear out of town.

  “That’s good, man, real good. Good to have you back, great in fact.” Billy ceased most of his staggering, and stood mostly in place, but now snapped his fingers; Jonathan remembered he had picked up the nervous habit while they were both still in Andrew Jackson Elementary School.

  Jonathan let several more awkward seconds pass before letting Billy off the hook. Looking his brother over, he saw Billy still wore a beer-themed trucker hat, the same worn-out, grease stained flannel shirts, predictably paint- and oil-stained tan work pants, and boots. Well, I’ll be, the boots look new. Mustuh got his taxes back, well, wait, got my taxes back, Billy hasn’t paid into the system. Ever. “Whaddya need, Billy? What’s up?”

  “Well, now there’s a great question, because I got a message from momma to stop by today, this morning, in fact, and seeing as how you’re here, I’m wondering the same thing. What’s up?”

  Jonathan felt his mother’s presence behind him before he heard her voice call out as she walked toward her sons. I didn’t think she really needed my help with chores. I wish she’d quit trying to make us friends. Jonathan had not enjoyed a good relationship with his brother since they were kids; he loathed Billy’s selfishness, especially after everything their parents endured raising him, and Billy had no respect for Jonathan’s previous government employment and intrinsic need to serve.

  “I just wanted to make dinner for both of my boys, and have a nice, quiet night with just the three of us, without all the other family distractions.” She placed her right arm around Jonathan and beckoned Billy with her left. “Get in here, and let’s get you boys something to eat.”

  About an hour later, Jonathan felt some accomplishment that he and Billy had sat at the same table, engaged in moderate small talk, and neither of them had yet lost any blood, not even from biting their own tongues. After Jonathan helped his mother clear the plates, Billy unexpectedly asked him to come out for beers. Even more surprising, though, were the apparently conspired efforts Billy and their mother immediately made to convince Jonathan this was a good idea. Against his better judgement, and with no reason except his intrinsic dislike of Billy to save him, Jonathan relented and agreed to join Billy “for only two beers.” I already told ‘em that Colleen works tonight and Michael is staying with her parents to keep his schedule consistent, he thought, I can’t even use my family as an excuse to save me from my other family.

  Once beyond their mother’s earshot behind the closed doors of Billy’s dilapidated 1974 Ford pickup, Jonathan felt less compelled to be so cordial. “Your P-O knows you’re drinking?”

  “Ain’t got no P-O right now,” Billy replied as he worked the ignition and repeatedly pumped the gas pedal to start his carbureted truck. “Even if I did, what he don’t know won’t hurt me.”

  Jonathan glared across the cab at his brother, somewhat surprised the man still had no capacity for change. As the engine roared to life and a worn belt squealed in protest, the darker memories of their childhood flooded back to Jonathan; fights, arrests, jail, bail bondsman, even several house arrests had been relatively common family events through the years.

  Billy unapologetically met his gaze. “Sorry I didn’t come to your welcome home party. Colleen and momma invited me, but I didn’t have nothin’ nice to wear. Glad you’re home safe, though.”

  “Sorry I didn’t come visit you in prison, but I didn’t have nothin’ nice to say. Glad you’re home free, though.”

  Billy genuinely smiled at Jonathan’s backhanded apology. “Good, then I guess we’re even.” Dropping the transmission in reverse and throttling the accelerator, he quickly backed out of their mother’s driveway.

  Jonathan saw his mother standing in the living room window and smiling, so he sat back in the seat and prepared for the certain discomfort this little trip held. Gotta remember to drop some cat litter on those shiny new oils spots Billy just left, he thought, looks like I’m gonna help mom with chores tonight after all. As the truck carried them out of the neighborhood, Jonathan decided, as a favor to his mother, to avoid further conflict with Billy that evening; despite his resolution, he couldn’t help reminiscing about the drama Billy had brought to their family, which had included several unannounced midnight probation searches of his mother’s home and Billy’s short, long-ago stint in prison for selling drugs and assaulting the arresting officer. Regardless of what Billy has in mind, Jonathan thought, I’m only willing to stay out long enough to satisfy mom.

  Jonathan had long viewed Billy as a lost soul and expected he would again end up in prison or find an early grave. Ever since they were young boys, Billy showed no capacity to accept authority or comply with anyone’s rules, no matter how reasonable or logical. Jonathan, along with everyone else who knew them, had always been amazed by the complete dichotomy between the brothers. For two people who grew up with the same parents, in the same house, with the same rules, same consequences, same expectations, and the same love, they had absolutely nothing but genes in common. So mom says, Jonath
an thought.

  Billy drove Jonathan south from Dry Creek along State Route 85, and away from the lights and traffic of the Phoenix metropolis. The City of Dry Creek, once a small farming community, lay at the far west end of the Phoenix suburbs between the larger City of Buckeye and an unincorporated area of Maricopa County known as Tonopah.

  After watching Sonoran desert replace civilization around them, Jonathan realized he had no idea where Billy intended to drink beer amidst the surrounding desert. Just as he considered asking their destination to ensure Billy wasn’t taking him all the way to Mexico, Billy turned the truck west on Woods Road, which lay approximately fifteen miles south of Dry Creek. A short mile later, they reached the intersection with Old US 80, a largely abandoned two-lane that connected State Route 85 with farms southwest of Dry Creek and the Town of Gila Bend, which lay farther south.

  Billy piloted the old Ford south and plunged them further into the solitary darkness of the cooling desert night. Jonathan saw no other cars on the isolated blacktop, and knew the infrequent homes in that area were occupied by farmers and dairy workers. The angry punk soundtrack projecting from Billy’s speakers struggled to overcome the road and wind noise, and neither of the brothers spoke. Both men had long been fluent in Uncomfortable Silence with one other. The electric guitar and angry lyrics reminded Jonathan of Joey O’Rorke, a high-strung corporal who had served under him during his first tour in Iraq.

  His thoughts drifted off into memories of O’Rorke and the young man’s death on that dusty Iraqi road. In Jonathan’s mind, sporadic AK-47 gunfire slowly replaced the punk music; he was back in the streets of Bagdad, again leading a patrol and watching young Corporal O’Rorke cut down in front of him while trying to provide suppressive cover fire to allow three soldiers to escape a bad position.

  Jonathan’s heart rate, blood pressure, and sweating increased, and he firmly gripped his left thigh and the truck’s passenger armrest; his eyes registered only the horrors of combat instead of the relatively peaceful drive with Billy. He reflexively began combat breathing to counter the fight-or-flight response; four-count in, hold, four-count out, repeat.