by Gavin Reese
Mrs. McDougal’s residence. Dry Creek, Arizona.
Jonathan stood in front of his mother’s living room window, drinking coffee and watching the early morning traffic pass by on the residential street outside. He had grown frustrated with DCPD; after sending them information, such as the Idaho license plate and description of the old Jeep Wagoneer he saw at what he hoped was Cleveland’s property, he’d gotten nothing in return. I’ve never even seen any cops around when I go out there, so it’s hard to imagine they’re spending any time and effort investigating these assholes. He assumed Detective Landon placed no real value on the intelligence he had passed on to them and, if they had done anything to contact or interview Billy and his shithead friends, they certainly didn’t pass along updates, or even just let him know they tried and failed. Jonathan thought the detectives at least owed him that, considering both his personal efforts to acquire the intel and that Billy’s actions may have put his entire family in danger.
He tried calling Landon and Wall throughout the first few hours of the business day, but finally gave up on reaching them. Driven by fear and anger that his own Army manual could be used to harm Americans, Jonathan decided to continue surveillance at the property off 411th Avenue until he convinced the detectives that Billy and his friends posed a legitimate threat. He knew directly confronting Billy and his friends might bring the most efficient results, but understood it also offered him the shortest route to a shallow desert grave.
As morning turned into the lunch hour, Jonathan again borrowed Mr. Trujillo’s car and drove out to the desert to surveil the concealed dirt brown trailer. Parking more than a mile away in a secluded wash, he cautiously hiked in from the south. Having chosen a close hilltop southwest of the trailer, Jonathan settled in to watch the compound and its only apparent access road through the scoped Dragunov. Despite the rifle having previously shot at him, and having more recently haunted his dreams, Jonathan felt more comfortable peering at adversaries through its scope than sitting in his mother’s living room. Or, for that matter, he thought, sitting anywhere in my own home.
The quasi-stalk from the car, carefully crawling down from the hill’s summit, and establishing a small hide reminded Jonathan of the brief, ad-hoc sniper training he acquired in Iraq. His company’s various sniper detachments had been gracious enough to allow him to periodically sneak outside the wire to accompany them on short missions. Although certain his superiors’ awareness would have been detrimental to his previous career, Jonathan firmly believed it provided him invaluable, first-hand understanding of his snipers’ capabilities, strengths, weaknesses, and operational needs that he could not have gained otherwise. It didn’t hurt that most of ‘em were all too happy to teach their Captain just enough to show me up, he thought, I probably know just enough about this to now be dangerous to myself.
Only a few minutes after Jonathan settled into his amateur hide, he watched an aging, faded green truck approach the driveway. Piece of shit Dodge, he thought, gotta be forty years old. As the truck slowly turned onto the isolated property, Jonathan correspondingly shifted the Dragunov to peer into its cab and made mental note of its occupants. Two white males, full beards, both heavyset, probably 5-10 to 6-00 tall, right forearm tattoos. Jonathan adjusted the scope’s view to narrow and magnify his field of vision, which revealed the men had tattoos similar to those on Billy’s friends back at The Watering Hole Saloon. As the faded Dodge truck passed, he read the Arizona license plate, ARS1204, and pulled back from the glass only long enough to document the plate, time, and vehicle description on a small notepad. Jonathan sighed as he returned to the scope, frustrated he had no realistic ability to enter the property without being killed. He tried to guess at what Landon’s reaction would be when he reported the truck to him, and hoped the detective would actually do something with it.
Jonathan startled a bit when his cell phone unexpectedly vibrated in his shirt’s right chest pocket. His left hand reached up to remove it while he leaned back away from the scope. Restricted. He answered the phone and spoke softly so as to not reveal himself to anyone nearby.
“…hullo?”
“…it’s Landon,” came the quiet response, and Jonathan thought it sounded intentional.
“I was just gonna call you,” Jonathan quietly offered, surprised to hear from the detective.
“…yeah, go ahead…”
“I wanted to pass along a plate to you from that property I think is Cleveland’s place, and see if you had turned anything else up that you could, you know, pass back.”
Landon’s hushed tone slowed. “That plate come off a truck, like, maybe, the old green Dodge with an Arizona plate of, say, adam-robert-sam-twelve-oh-four?” Jonathan looked down at his notepad Alpha-romeo-sierra… what the fuck??
“Where are you, Landon?” Jonathan slowly turned to scan the hill above and behind him, the most obvious point for someone to have seen him.
“…you should’ve brought an observer, Jonathan, too dangerous to be out here alone. I mean, I would assume you’re hunting rabbits and just brought the Dragunov by mistake? That thing’ll tear a rabbit apart, nothing left to eat or skin. Meet you back behind the gas station just south of the freeway, so we can discuss your choice of hunting spots, alright?”
“See you there,” he said and closed the phone before adding, “fucker.” Jonathan slowly backed out of his hide and started toward the car. Despite being glad to know they were out here, somewhere, actually doing something, Jonathan’s interaction with the detective simultaneously wounded his pride that he hadn’t seen them first. They were just cops, he thought, they should never have spotted me.
Forty-Six
Dry Creek Patrol Training Room. Dry Creek, Arizona.
With Detective Alex Landon in tow, Detective Ron Berkshire strode through the back entrance to the DCPD Training Room. He saw Patrol Sergeant David Templeton had already begun his daily patrol briefing and addressed his squad of eight patrol officers from behind a podium engraved with a large, ornate rendition of a DCPD Patrol Officer badge. Centered on the room’s front wall, two columns of long, cheap plastic folding tables flanked the sergeant and allowed about twenty officers to comfortably sit facing him. To make the police facilities more welcoming to employees and visiting officers, the building’s interior walls had recently been repainted a creamed-coffee brown, while a dark chocolate covered the wall at the front of each room and bright white baseboards and ceilings accented the otherwise monochromatic palette. Berkshire liked the rich, home-inspired change, as well as its humorous contrast with the cheap furniture that filled the various rooms. He knew the engraved podium had been the only costly furniture purchase; its lightly stained mesquite created a natural, multi-colored wood grain that gave the large, engraved DCPD badge a subdued, camouflage brown appearance.
“…and Derrick will be moving to Colorado Springs at the end of this month,” Sergeant Templeton said to those gathered. “It seems that ensuring his son successfully negotiates the Air Force Academy is more important than topping out his retirement here with us. Wish him well if you see him around, I hear rumor there is to be a going-away party at some point next weekend, before he heads north and starts work for Colo Springs PD. Please let me know if you hear anything about it so I can pass info along to the other squads.” Berkshire saw Templeton look up from his notes when he realized he and Landon had arrived.
“Sarge, do you mind if I interrupt the party planning for a few?” Berkshire proceeded toward Sergeant Templeton and the podium, already knowing no one would actually object.
“They’re all yours, Detective.” Templeton stepped back and took a seat against the back wall.
“Morning, kids, this’ll be quick.” He moved behind the podium, turned to face the patrol officers, and saw Detective Landon had taken a seat to his left and slightly behind the podium. He opened his leather padfolio and flipped several pages over until he recognized his handwritten notes for this morning’s patrol br
iefing. “Need your help to find out everything we can about a group that may be calling themselves The Chosen Few.”
“We think they’re local white supremacists, and they may be trying to acquire or build IEDs. We have some pretty reliable intel that they exist and are trying to potentially do bad things to good people, but we’re coming up a little short right now, and none of the other cop shops in our region know anything about them. I need you to beat the bushes, call in all your favors, hit up all your local snitches, and bring daddy back something worth biting into.” He looked around the patrol officers; several took notes, and he saw all of them intently listened to his information. From his peripheral left, Berkshire saw Landon stand up from his chair and take one step toward the audience.
“We also have intel on an old, faded green Dodge truck,” Landon offered, “Arizona plate Adam-Robert-Sam-twelve-oh-four. If you see it, get P-C for a stop, and interview the driver and anyone inside, they are likely part of our problem. Any questions on that?”
Officer Johnson half-heartedly raised his left hand from the back row. “Just one, Detectives, does Mrs. Berkshire’s pillow talk count as snitching? Cuz, if it does, I’m afraid she might be getting some stitches soon.”
Berkshire had little patience for the shenanigans today, and ignored the normally well-received insult. “On a potentially related note, I’ve been seeing an increase in hate speech postings on various sites that could be threat indicators of a planned event in the coming months. I don’t have a lot to offer you on specifics, other than the concerning posts revolve around military tactics and IEDs. So, all I can ask for now, is to keep your ears open. If anyone starts ranting about retaliating against specific groups, or the government, I need you to pass along a Field Interview so I can try to get a full threat workup done. I wish I had more, but I’ll let you know as soon as I do.
Berkshire paused and reviewed his notes to ensure he covered all the intended topics. “Lastly, I got word at the last Joint Terrorism Task Force meeting that the feds are all pretty well engrossed in what they’re calling Operation Trifecta. In short, they believe several large-scale racketeering operations may involve the same bad actors with several criminal organizations running a modern-day Triangle Trade, only they’re conspiring to run guns, money, and drugs, so just a normal Wednesday here near the southern border. I need you to keep your sergeant and Investigations aware of anything you run across that has potential to be involved in any side of that operation. Questions there? No?”
“Whaddayathink, Ron, is the world coming to an end, or just our little corner of it?” Templeton’s question caught Berkshire off-guard. “That’s a heck of a hellish laundry list for us to watch out for.”
“No doubt, Sergeant. If it were easy and unfrightening, the civilians wouldn’t need us. Alright, if nobody’s got questions, we are out of your hair for today, Sergeant, and the podium is again yours.”
Forty-Seven
Cleveland’s property. Tonopah, Arizona.
Cleveland patrolled his desert property just before sunset, as he did every evening, a rifle slung over his left shoulder and an initially frosty can of beer in his right hand. He walked his long-established patrol route, which served to ensure he evaluated the entire property and immediately differentiated his tracks and from any others he found. Pausing at the northwest corner of the property, his favorite and most scenic spot, he watched the sun drop beyond the horizon’s distant desert hills. Cleveland stayed there long enough to watch the long nearby shadows widen and consume everything around them; the overhead sky darkened, the western light dissipated, and he decided to move along before true darkness enveloped the desert.
As he turned to continue his foot patrol, Cleveland looked down at a nearby bush in front of him and responded with fear and surprise. The nearly empty beer can fell to the ground as Cleveland recklessly unslung the rifle from his left shoulder, drew it against his right, and turned to face east with the rifle up and ready. After recognizing a large, eastbound boot print near the brush belonged to someone else, he understood it had been placed there so recently he expected to imminently defend himself and his property.
Cleveland lowered his stance and kneeled on his right knee. He remained silent for several minutes, listening to the surrounding desert as the remaining daylight faded behind him. Satisfied no identified, immediate threat presented itself, Cleveland rose and cautiously followed the tracks deeper into his property, but soon lost sight of them in the failing light and increasingly rocky terrain near his shed, outbuilding, and home. He spent the next hour carefully and slowly clearing each of the buildings and the rest of his property. Convinced the trespasser had escaped, Cleveland immediately tightened security at the property, but decided against informing Duke of the incursion.
Over the next three hours, Cleveland called and interrogated all members of The Chosen Few, reaffirmed their blood oath to secrecy, and specifically grilled Billy about his brother and if he could have learned about the property and The Chosen Few. Cleveland initially wanted Billy to bring Jonathan there, but determined instead not to give away any information about The Chosen Few and their intent, just in case the boot prints did not belong to Billy’s brother. Cleveland decided it would be just as effective for Billy to bring him photographs of all his brother’s boots.
“How soon do you think you can have that done, Billy?” Clearly impatient, Cleveland seemed to possess a momentary lack of trust in Billy and his word.
“I can head over there tomorrow morning and have ‘em to you soon after that.” Billy’s voice conveyed an appropriate fear of the swift and immediate consequences for failure; Cleveland hoped the man understood his brother could only have found the property by following him there, and then betraying his own blood kin. Everyone shared responsibility for security, and Cleveland held everyone accountable for failures.
“See that you do. This is serious shit and we ain’t got time to play guessing games.” Cleveland hung up, unconvinced of Billy’s honesty. Hate to see something bad happen to that boy, he thought, even if he’s the one that makes me do it.
Forty-Eight
Billy’s trailer. Tonopah, Arizona.
Billy closed his antiquated flip-phone, aware of the self-created jam in which he suddenly found himself. He suspected Jonathan had reported the stolen manual to the police, which probably meant he had arrest warrants out for theft, and maybe for felony burglary. Having been in this circumstance before, Billy understood he could probably avoid arrest for a few weeks, maybe months, as long as he stayed away from Jonathan. Even though he believed his mother would never call the cops over this, Billy felt certain Jonathan would likely put the wood to him and then call the cops to pick him up.
Torn about how to resolve his dilemma, Billy had to either get the photos Cleveland wanted and let the cards fall where they may, or give Cleveland fake photos just to pacify him. Billy decided his best chance for survival remained to stay away from Jonathan and continue working to get Cleveland’s trust back. Cleveland needs photos of boot treads, so he’d get them. Certain Jonathan didn’t also buy all his boots at Wal-Mart, he hoped photos of his own treads would avert any potential further conflict Cleveland might seek to create if he thought Jonathan had been skulking around on his property. Hell, he thought, they could actually be Jonathan’s prints, but there’ll be Hell to pay for a month o’ Sundays if that’uz the case. They might even consider killin’ him for somethin’ as egregious as trespass. That just can’t be let to pass.
Billy walked into his bedroom, turned all of his boots over, and used his cell phone to photograph the treads. He realized his actions were born as much out of self-preservation as they were to save Jonathan from retribution, assuming he’d even been responsible. They would suffer or survive together, even if Jonathan never realized it. Billy almost sent the photos to Cleveland, but then remembered he told his leader he couldn’t complete the assignment until tomorrow morning. Damn, I almost fucked that whole thi
ng up, he thought, and chuckled at himself for a brief moment. But, what if the prints don’t belong to Jonathan anyway, but they came from some other asshole with Wal-Mart boots? Billy held the closed cell phone in his hands and considered his desperate lack of options. I’m probly fucked either way. Best to send these off to Cleveland in the morning, and see what comes of it.
Forty-Nine
Dry Creek Patrol Training Room. Dry Creek, Arizona.
Seated at the back, left corner of the DCPD training room, Detective Alex Landon watched Patrol Sergeant David Templeton share information his patrol squad would need to perform their duties that day. Despite having only recently moved over to Neighborhood Enforcement Unit as a full-time detective, Landon already missed the camaraderie and banter DCPD’s patrol squads shared in that room. He even missed the aroma of morning briefings, a calming mix of brewed coffee and the light, slightly sweet odor of gun oil. For years, officers had used the room and its plastic furniture to clean their service weapons at the end of firearms training days, so the tables now permanently emanated the distinct scent of Hoppe’s #9.
“…and, that brings us to the last thing on my briefing list. Detective Landon, as you may have noticed, has graced us with his presence.”
“Just here to thank you guys for your great work, and see if there’s anything you need from me or NEU.” As he spoke, Landon intentionally made eye contact with the patrol officers, hoping to convey his sincere gratitude for the quality of the work and intel they routinely provided his unit.
“So, while he and Talbert are here in the same room together, I wanted to take this opportunity to discuss the upcoming annual ‘Weis Wut’ gathering in Tonopah.” Templeton properly pronounced the German “w’s” as “v’s” and Landon saw he smiled at the upcoming joke, as did several patrol officers who turned from Alex to look toward Patrol Officer Talbert, who sat in the back row four seats to Alex’s left. “All together now…” The sergeant broadly waived his arms upward as though he were a grandiose orchestra conductor.
