by Gavin Reese
Fifty-Four
The Big Bad Wolf Gun Shop. Peoria, Arizona.
Duke had driven straight through the night to Schneider’s place in Sandpoint, spent the better part of a full day modifying their timetable, projecting obstacles, and planning to overcome them. After only a few hours’ sleep, he returned to Arizona confident he’d averted this crisis.
Mentally exhausted, Duke felt like he had been driving on auto-pilot for the last six hours. Despite all he and his partners had accomplished in only a few short days, he remained disappointed they didn’t have the stomach to use smaller, secondary devices to specifically target the cops, firefighters, and EMTs who would inevitably respond to the initial blasts. Duke felt that significant, missing piece would ensure the American voters possessed sufficient outrage to accomplish all he desired. Rather than realizing that using that specific tactic would help point blame at Islamic terrorists, the other conspirators had objected to intentionally targeting first responders; they feared it would only ensure a more vigorous and thorough investigation certain to end with their death or convictions. Although he disagreed with their conclusion, Duke could not completely fault their reasoning. As he exited the freeway loop and approached his appointment, he pondered if his partners’ apprehension indicated a larger underlying problem with their operational security.
Duke parked in front of the Big Bad Wolf Firearms & Trading Company without having broken his own threshold for more than seventy-two hours. The last few days had been so focused on unanticipated logistical problems that he forgot about this previously scheduled gun shipment, at least until Cleveland called him yesterday to set up the time. Sometimes, if He existed, I would thank God for that boy, he thought.
Fifty-Five
Rio Arriba Restaurant. Peoria, Arizona.
Given the length of time the pair had been inside the gun store, Jonathan had just begun to reconsider retrieving his phone when he saw an oxidized gold Oldsmobile Alero drive into the gun store lot and park next to Cleveland’s Bronco. Wiping taco sauce from his chin, Jonathan watched a white male emerge from the driver’s seat as though he had mild physical disabilities, don a desert tan tactical backpack much like what Army medics frequently used overseas, walk stiffly to the front of the car, and perform several basic PT stretches. Jonathan noticed the driver, along with his parked car, were directly in front of what looked like a security camera hung from the building’s exterior; he immediately thought it strange that the driver spent so much time in full view of the camera, especially because so many gun owners feared government surveillance and oversight. He also noticed the driver didn’t take off the backpack while going through his stretch regiment, which seemed odd and looked out-of-place on an adult male who had just arrived in a car. Backpacks are common only to students, travelers, PSDs, and hobos, so… there must be something pretty valuable in that pack.
Surprisingly, Jonathan saw the driver walk away from the short stretching session at least ten years younger than when he exited the car. I bet he’s been driving for a long time, like all-day-road-trip long, Jonathan thought. The backpacked driver entered the store and Jonathan again debated going out to retrieve his cell phone, but The Ginger interrupted that thought by exiting the gun store and obviously standing watch over both cars and the immediate area. Now Jonathan felt locked into the restaurant and couldn’t risk being seen again. If any of them could spot me, it’s that fuckin’ guy. Damn, I wish I could call Landon or Wall.
Jonathan recorded the Alero’s license plate on his Rio Arriba receipt; intrinsically certain the newly arrived driver had to be involved with whatever Cleveland had going on inside, Jonathan accepted that further action might sacrifice all the day’s efforts. He surmised The Ginger had to be new to Cleveland’s operation; his behavior outside the gun store betrayed his fear of detection and apprehension, which directly contradicted his previous confidence at the Tonopah Gas ‘N Go station. He watched The Ginger so constantly look for threats that Jonathan couldn’t help chuckling at the man. He thinks A-T-F SWAT ninjas are gonna materialize from thin air and fall from the sky, he thought, this guy is the weak link.
A long fifteen minutes passed before Jonathan saw Cleveland open The Big Bad Wolf’s front door and call The Ginger back inside. After only a few seconds, both men exited and each carried two rifles cases out to the Bronco. Jonathan watched in amazement as the twosome repeated the trip three more times, for a total of sixteen rifle cases.
Suddenly aware of how far he had hung himself out in a very dangerous wind, Jonathan stood, quickly walked to the counter, and convinced the pimple-faced cashier to loan him the store’s phone, an antiquated cord model that tied him to the front counter a mere three feet from the curious clerk. The cashier also kindly located a dusty phone book, though it had been printed in 2010. Jonathan doubted DCPD had changed their main phone number in that time and dialed the listed number. Three rings later, he spoke with an exceptionally polite dispatcher who connected him to Landon’s cell phone.
“Landon.”
“Hullo? Detective Landon? It’s Jonathan McDougal, I-”
“Jonathan, thanks for calling me back, I’d rather speak with you in person, are you available to come down?”
“Call you back? I’m not calling you back, my phone’s locked in my car. I’m calling you for help.” Confused and again reminded of the pending criminal case against him, Jonathan grew annoyed at his present circumstance, which the nosy clerk further exacerbated by intently listening to his side of the conversation.
“Sorry, I left a message on your cell a few hours ago and need to see you right away. It’s about Billy and his friends.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. I need your help with that.” He paused and tried to nonverbally shoo the kid away, but he defiantly stayed in place. “I kinda followed one of them around for a while today, and-” Jonathan saw the kid lean in closer.
“What?! That’s exactly why I need to see you, Jonathan, you can’t keep doing this!” Landon seemed to do little to contain his anger, although Jonathan imagined far more unprofessional language swirled inside the detective’s head at that moment. “You’re starting to run the risk of interfering with our investigation, especially if they ID you, or take action against you, it’ll run this whole thing sideways!”
“Look, this is not the right time and,” Jonathan stared straight at the kid and spoke directly to him and Landon, “I am not in the right place for this argument.” The kid held firm, as though confident random adults could do little to him without facing arrest. Fuck it, Jonathan thought, the kid won’t understand any of this anyway. “I followed Cleveland from his place to a gun shop on Peoria east of the 101. He just went inside with two other guys, came out, and loaded sixteen rifles in a Bronco.”
The kid’s eyes widened in surprise as he backed away from Jonathan and the front counter. He meandered over to the front window, through which Jonathan saw, even from his corded position at the counter, Cleveland and The Ginger arranging numerous rifles cases into the back of the Bronco. As Jonathan believed had become instinctive to the clerk’s generation, he removed his cell phone from his back pocket, raised it up, and snapped a photograph of the scene across the street.
“Fuck me, did you get a picture of it?” Landon’s priorities suddenly shifted.
Jonathan eyed the kid and his phone, and waived him back behind the counter. “Not yet, but I think I’ll have one in a few seconds here.” The kid, now unaware of the conversation, smirked at Jonathan and shuffled back behind the counter, but stayed at the far side where he could better watch the more interesting men across the street.
“What about plates?”
“Cleveland’s driving an older, early-1990's Bronco, plate is Delta-Romeo-Tango-Eleven-oh-Five, and one of the two new guys drove up in a faded gold Olds Alero, license plate Four-One-Oh-Juliet-Sierra-Tango. He’s 45-to-55 years old, six feet, two hundred, brown mullet, carrying a tan medic’s backpack around. He parked right in front o
f the store’s security cameras, got out, and did some stretching like he was making a point to be seen on surveillance. The other new guy rode in with Cleveland from his place in Tonopah, red hair, bright blue eyes, five-ten-ish, 1-80 or so, patchy facial hair, has The Chosen Few tattoo on his right forearm.” Jonathan kept trying to shoo the kid farther away from the window, but he seemed determined to ignore his directives. “How soon can you guys be up here to pick these assholes up?”
“Well, we can’t pick them up for that alone. It’s not illegal to buy a shitload of guns, and the A-T-F only requires special notification if you buy more than one handgun within five business days, so he could do that every day of the week without problems as long as he keeps clearing the background checks.”
“Assuming they’re actually doing the background checks, right?”
“Yeah, well, right.” Jonathan heard Landon swallow hard on the other side of the phone. “Jonathan, some things have come up around here and I have to officially and definitively tell you to stop surveilling these guys, it’s too dangerous for you to be out there on your own with no authority and no support.” He hoped to bend the conversation so he and Jonathan had a clear-as-mud understanding.
“So, you guys gonna show up and take over here before these clowns and their guns drive off into the sunset for parts unknown?” This is bullshit.
“No, we can’t get there fast enough, and I doubt even the local guys in Glendale or Peoria can have unmarked surveillance in place before they bounce. In fact, I need to ask you to meet with us and some task force agents downtown, they’re finally biting off on helping us out with this.”
“So, you want me to leave this alone, with the number of guns that are involved, walk away, to meet you and some feds to talk about what’s happening, instead of actually doing something about it while it’s happening?”
“It sounds bad when you say it like that, Jonathan, but we have no direct evidence of any criminal wrongdoing on this yet. I can’t get anyone else to devote assets and resources to us until they’re convinced this investigation is worth the time and effort. I agree it’s suspicious as hell, but it’s not illegal to buy a shitload of rifles, even though it makes those assholes looks guilty as fuck. I’m with you, but that doesn’t mean I can do anything about it, at least not yet. The most productive thing we can do right now is for all of us to meet with the task force guys and give them your info.”
“No thanks, I’m certain you can handle that without me.” Jonathan felt enraged that Landon sat on his hands, but didn’t feel like having that argument out in the Rio Arriba lobby. “I’m gonna see where these guys go, and you go have your meeting. You know everything I know right now, anyway.”
“Jonathan, I’m serious, I need you there, can you please come down?”
“Gotta go.”
“Okay, I can’t make you do anything, but I need you to understand that, right now, officially, I’m telling you I was told to tell you, to stop helping us like this.”
“So, officially, I am no longer to follow these guys and their numerous guns and determine where they go from here?”
“Officially, yes.”
“So, officially, are you headed this way, just in case I see them while I meander through the streets of Phoenix?”
“Hey, dude, your guys are jetting, bro.” Jonathan looked at the clerk, and saw he pointed directly out the front window. Although simultaneously grateful for the help, he feared the kid would get him spotted.
“Hey, Landon, officially, I have to go. Do you officially want that photo?”
“Absolutely, yes. If you happen to be taking it in some other, unofficial, capacity.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t take it. Officially. I’ll call you when I get tired of driving around so we can have that sit-down, maybe someplace nice and quiet where you’ll have to get your dress shoes dirty.” He placed the phone on the counter without further discussion. Jonathan hoped he understood Landon’s intent to officially tell him to back off while unofficially asking him to stay on task a bit longer. Officially, that was the only way anything ever got done in the military, as well, Jonathan thought, damn, I hope Landon didn’t misconstrue that ‘dress shoes’ comment as a threat…
Jonathan approached the kid, who still watched the parking lot. “Did you get a good shot of those guys?”
The kid smiled and reflexively pulled the phone from his pocket. “Yeah, bro, zoomed in and everything, I think the red headed guy was saying ‘fuck’ when I snapped it.”
Jonathan watched him enter the iPhone’s passcode and the picture immediately popped up on the screen. Without warning or hesitation, he quickly snatched the phone from the kid’s extended right hand. “Thanks for grabbing that evidence, kid.”
“Wait, what?!”
“7-9-2-6, right?”
“That’s my…yeah, 79-26, right…wait, are you a cop? How do I get my phone back?!” The kid tried once, and only once, to grab it back from Jonathan before he seemed to realize years, maybe decades, stood between him and winning that fight. “This is bullshit, fucker, my mom’s paid for that phone!”
“You’ll get it back, eventually. Just let this be a lesson for you. Don’t try to fuck with the cops, we fuck you back.” He looked up and saw the Bronco had already departed, but the Alero’s driver still worked to merge onto Peoria Avenue.
“Where did the Bronco go?”
“Fuck you, dude, give me the phone back and I’ll tell you.”
“I don’t barter, kid, and I don’t think I can trust you anyway. Is this pic already posted?”
“No, I was waiting to hear you say more about the Bronco so I could put some Top Secret shit up, yo! I can’t believe you’re stealing my phone! My girl’s number’s in there!”
“I bet there’s more than her number in here, but I’m not stealing it, I’m impounding it as evidence, big difference. Call D-C-P-D in about five years and you can maybe have it back then.” He started to walk away and decided he had to ask the kid for more help, regardless of whether the kid wanted to cooperate. “Another thing. You don’t say a word about this. To anyone,” he then looked down at the kid’s name tag, “Chad. Not a soul. You know why?” The kid could ruin everything with something as justified as a phone call to the local cops about what he had seen and heard.
“Fuck that, man, I’m calling my lawyer, I’m calling the reporters, I’m calling the cops, I’m-”
“How many photos do you have of underage titties and weed on here?” Jonathan playfully dangled the phone in front of Chad, just out of his reach.
“Fuck you, man, that ain’t cool! Don’t play me like that!”
“No, man. Fuck. You. Kiddie porn and drugs ain’t cool. You keep your mouth shut, I keep my mouth shut.” He looked up to see the Alero turn west and head back toward Loop 101. “I have to go, and you have to forget you saw any of this, Chad. Deal?”
Chad sighed, his slumped shoulders demonstrating his defeated position. “Deal. Fucker.”
“Hmm, like you got a lawyer.” Jonathan turned and jogged out to the sedan. He got the car started and out onto Peoria Avenue just in time to see the Alero turn north and enter the Loop 101 on-ramp.
Fifty-Six
The Big Bad Wolf Gun Shop. Peoria, Arizona.
Duke drove north on Loop 101 from Peoria Avenue to reach westbound Bell Road. By driving west on Bell, he would force any surveillance team to follow him through the ever-heavy traffic of the City of Surprise before reaching Sunvalley Parkway, a desolate, twenty-two mile stretch of divided four-lane blacktop Duke hoped would expose and identify any tails before they successfully identified him or his residence.
Reflecting on the previous three days’ events and his accomplishments in resolving unforeseen difficulties, Duke felt too proud and arrogant to credit anyone but himself. Even his most devoted follower, Cleveland, earned no gratitude for helping him maintain their scheduled rifle pickup. He chose not to recognize the efforts o
f everyone who contributed to his straw-purchased gun sales, and only concerned himself with his criminal genius and personal earnings. The sixteen rifles he purchased today, at a tremendous volume discount from the licensed dealer, would soon earn him a net profit of just over $10,000, even after paying his driver’s $4,800 cut to deliver them to the Santa Lina Cartel.
Duke even gloated about the perceived genius of his gun-running operation, inspired by the government’s own botched Operation Fast-and-Furious. Even though Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives, still commonly known as the “A-T-F,” regulations allowed him to purchase an unlimited number of rifles per day, the serial numbers were tracked and assigned to the purchaser’s identity in the ATF database. The shop owner thought himself a “friend” and shared Duke’s professed ideologies, so he willingly and frequently sold rifles to Duke in the names of various decedents. They never transacted more than five firearms per identity per month, so they reduced the probability of raising suspicion at the ATF. As much as Cleveland believed Duke trusted him, he never allowed Cleveland to witness the transactions and the manner in which the shop owner allowed them to be conducted.
Despite being a conspirator in this endeavor, the owner of the Big Bad Wolf Gun & Trading Company didn’t personally know where the weapons ended up. The gun store owner didn’t know Duke’s real name and had no desire for such knowledge. He would have preferred to sell guns to nameless, faceless men and women he knew only as “Cash.”
Duke insulated his conspirators, even from each other, although there would be little corroborated information Cleveland could have offered the feds against this shop owner. There would be no video surveillance footage of the transactions for them to confiscate, no records that would show the owner conspired to commit crimes, and the photocopies of buyers’ IDs would, at worst, show the shop owner had the misfortune of selling guns to an unknown white male who presented false identification. No proven intent on his part and, therefore, no crime committed. America hadn’t yet criminalized being unlucky or gullible.
