Never-ending-snake

by Thurlo, David

  “What about women? I’m assuming some hang out there, too?”

  “Enough so that you’ll fit in, particularly wearing jeans and that Lobo cap. Here’s the turnoff.”

  He slowed, left the highway, and headed northeast down a dirt road. Low, wide junipers dotted the gently rolling hills, and knee-high sagebrush provided cover for cottontails and jackrabbits. It was close to sunset, and though the daylight hours were long this time of year, they only had usable light for perhaps another hour.

  After a bumpy two-mile drive along fresh and well-defined tire ruts, Blalock turned up a long, gentle rise. Once at the top, he parked beside two pickups. Beyond was the rim of a steep drop-off, more of a cliff, and below a small canyon. On the far side was another steep mesa. The wide ravine made a perfect bullet trap as long as shots were directed into the base of the opposite slope. Three bullet-ridden barrels rested at that spot, though one had managed to get tipped over.

  As they climbed out, three men also exited a red and white Dodge Ram and walked in their general direction. They all had what looked like military handguns at their waists. Dan, whom Ella recognized, wore a black German leather holster, probably containing a P-38 pistol or a Luger. His companions had M1911 .45 autos in GI style leather holsters with U.S. stamped on the flaps. One of them also carried a late World War II German assault rifle slung over his shoulder. It was either an MP-43 or 44, she couldn’t remember which, though she was pretty current on the last hundred years of weapon history.

  “Dan,” Blalock greeted, shaking the offered hand. The gun shop owner was a tall, slightly balding male in his mid-forties, wearing a red pullover shirt and yellow-tinted shooting glasses. “This is a friend of mine, Ella.”

  “Good to meet you,” Dan said, with a raised eyebrow that suggested his cop radar had just gone off. “These two pistol-packing bozos claim to be friends of mine. Gary and Dennis,” he added, “meet Dwayne and Ella.”

  His companions, both about Dan’s age and looking fit in jeans, tee-shirts, and open windbreakers, shook hands with her. Although Navajos generally avoided physical contact with strangers, Ella went along with it. Silently noting the automatic weapon Dennis was cradling over his forearm, she said, “I saw one of those in that Private Ryan movie. A German assault rifle, isn’t it?”

  “You know your firearms, lady. This is an MP-44, one of the first assault rifles. This particular baby fires a 7.92 short from a 35 round magazine. The Russians used it as inspiration for their AK-47. Ever fire a full automatic?”

  “No, but maybe I’ll get the opportunity someday. I like weapons with a bit of history behind them.” Playing innocent and letting herself be impressed seemed the best strategy at the moment. “My dad fought in World War II, and he owned a surplus M-1 that he let me fire several times. Dwayne’s brought me out for the chance to shoot his Springfield .30-06 with the original Weaver scope, too. Supposed to be a fine sniper rifle.”

  “Sure was, but you’ve got to see my MG 42. Best rifle-caliber machine gun ever made—in my not-so-humble opinion,” Gary added with a grin. “Sweet and reliable, though it goes through ammo like there’s no tomorrow. It’s over there in my pickup bed. Wanna take a look?”

  Ella glanced at Blalock, who was trying to get a few quiet words with Dan. Deciding that he’d do better getting information from his source if he got some time alone with Dan, she walked over with the others to admire the big World War II–era German machine gun. It was mounted on a bipod and resting inside an open wooden crate. A canvas tarp tossed to the side obviously served as a dust cover during transport.

  “I’m afraid one of these days I’ll get pulled over by a deputy and he’ll freak out when he looks under the tarp,” Gary said with a chuckle. “I can’t exactly carry it on a rack behind the seat rest, and my old lady won’t let me drive her minivan off-road since I trashed the oil pan a few months back.”

  Back in the days when she’d served with the Bureau, Ella had received extensive firearms training, and she’d taken it upon herself to learn how to operate virtually any firearm she might encounter. Although she didn’t have any actual experience with a belt-fed machine gun on a tripod or bipod, she’d fired several submachine guns and assault rifles, all at semi and full auto.

  Ella kept Dennis and Gary busy, flattering their egos, and revealing just enough background knowledge to keep the conversation going.

  “So, Ella, ready to work your way up to fully automatic? You might want to start out with Dennis’s machinenpistole. It’s easy to aim and control. Then you can explode some targets with the big girl, if you’re still eager,” Gary said. “We’ve got fresh targets taped onto two sand-filled fifty-five-gallon drums down there in the wash.”

  Ella was interested, and nodded, having never fired a World War II German weapon other than nine-millimeter pistols and a Mauser rifle. But she’d found the Russian designed AKs she’d handled accurate and reliable, and was genuinely looking forward to firing its German predecessor. “Let me get some ear protection first.”

  Five minutes later, after emptying a full magazine into the target on the left, she lowered the MP-44 from her shoulder and turned her head to gauge their reaction, pleased with her accuracy. The assault rifle was noisier and had a little more kick than the MP-5, a much more recent design submachine gun in pistol caliber, but it was still easy to aim and control. For a weapon produced in the mid-1940s, it could still hold its own with any iron-sighted automatic weapon she’d ever carried, and it didn’t look as crude and simple as the AK-47. She could have blown away targets for hours with that bad boy.

  “Real skill or beginner’s luck, you dun good, Ella.” Dennis, who’d been watching the target with a pair of fancy binoculars, laughed as he tried to read her expression. “Every time I see someone fire full auto for the first time, there’s that same smile on their face.”

  Ella carefully handed the empty weapon back to Dennis. “There was a lot less recoil than I expected, and it has a really natural feel to it. Sweet and easy to aim. But I’d go broke buying the ammo, not to mention the expensive federal permit needed to own one of these babies.”

  “Just wait ’til you work a few seconds of full-size 7.92 rounds through Bertha over there,” Gary waved toward the bed of his Dodge. “Better than sex—well, close.”

  The sound of a vehicle driving up got their attention. Ella noted two men in the cab of the gold Chevy Silverado as it swung to the left and came to a stop fifty yards farther along the edge of the cliff. “This must be a popular hangout,” she said.

  “Sure is. No problems with the law, no neighbors to complain, no gun club dues, and no rules except mutual respect and common sense,” Gary said, watching the truck. “I think those boys have been here before.”

  One of the men waved as he climbed out of the passenger side, an assault gun in his hand, barrel pointed skyward. Ella stared, recognizing the silhouette of the weapon. It was something in the ArmaLite, M-16 family. Then the driver stepped out of the cab, and looked right at her.

  “Cop!” he yelled, then jumped back into the truck. His partner followed.

  “What the hell?” Dennis said, taking a step back and raising his binoculars.

  Ella reached down for her handgun, then realized it was in the SUV instead of at her hip. By then, the driver was already whipping the Silverado around in a panic.

  “Dwayne, that’s them!” Ella yelled, racing toward his vehicle.

  Twenty seconds later they were bouncing along the dirt track, branches from juniper trees whipping the sides of the SUV as Blalock struggled to maintain speed and control over lousy ground. Visibility was poor among the junipers and he was cutting corners whenever he could, in hot pursuit.

  After retrieving her handgun and holster from beneath the seat, Ella struggled to get Blalock’s out of the glove compartment where, thanks to the rough road, it had become buried under several maps. The sniper rifle and carbine were in gun cases in the back, out of reach, but her nine-millimeter was loaded wit
h AP rounds now.

  “Did we really get that lucky and cross paths with the pair from the airstrip?” Blalock asked, not taking his eyes off the truck ahead. “I thought you hadn’t been able to make an ID.”

  “I still can’t. They blew it when they recognized me. Add to that the fact that they were carrying the right weapons, and I’m willing to bet we hit pay dirt.”

  “Let’s catch up to them first, then we’ll sort this out,” Blalock said, then began to cough from the cloud of dust that the truck ahead of them was kicking up. Their windows were wide open.

  Ella sneezed as they raced up a steep hill, then swerved hard to the right, going back down into an arroyo. To remain steady she had to grab on to the door handle despite her seat belt. The pickup was now out of view, somewhere ahead.

  “Bad place for an ambush,” Blalock said.

  “Or good—for them.” Ella reached up to grasp the turquoise badger fetish around her neck—a gift from her hataalii brother—and immediately felt the heat, a warning sign.

  “Ambush!” she yelled. “Take evasive—now!”

  Blalock hit the brakes, throwing them into a controlled slide. Shifting the vehicle into reverse, he jammed on the gas.

  Suddenly bullets tore into the front end, ripping up the hood.

  “Hit the floor,” Blalock yelled, letting go of the wheel and diving in her direction as the windshield exploded, raining glass down on them.

  They bumped heads, but the sound of bullets tearing through the vehicle numbed every other sensation. Ella attempted to cover up with her arms, but Dwayne was already on top of her and she couldn’t move.

  The five-second barrage seemed to go on for an eternity, but just as suddenly as it had started, it grew still. The engine had long since died, and the only sound she could hear was Blalock’s breathing and her own pounding heartbeat.

  “Clah, you okay?” he said at last.

  “Yeah—once you get off me, that is.”

  “Which way?” he whispered.

  “Out your side. Then cover me when I follow.”

  Ella felt the pressure ease as Blalock lifted off her, then heard him grope for the door handle.

  Seconds later, she crawled out and fell to the ground on her hands and knees. Hearing a vehicle racing up from behind, she instantly dove into the brush beside the front door, flattened, and brought her pistol up, taking aim. Blalock, who was still crouched by the front bumper, aimed his weapon in the direction of the sound and braced for a fight.

  TEN

  Seconds later the red and white Dodge Ram from the firing range raced up, sliding to a stop only ten feet away. Dennis jumped out first, holding the German MP-44 at his hip, Rambo-style, as he emerged from the cloud of dust thrown up by their approach. He was joined by Dan and Gary, pistols in hand.

  “Glad to see you two are still standing. It sounded like you might need some extra firepower,” Dan said, looking past them. “I see dust down the road, so it looks like the dudes in the Silverado are taking off.”

  “Now that they’re outnumbered and outgunned,” Ella said, standing up and tucking her handgun into the holster at her belt. “They’re the same dirtbags who shot two men at the airstrip the other day.”

  “Who are you?” Gary asked.

  “The tribal detective they’ve missed twice now,” Ella answered. “And, yes, this is out of my jurisdiction.”

  Ella walked up the road, cautiously, and found one of the gunmen’s ambush positions—obvious from the glint of metal on the ground beside the twisted juniper stump. Everything was in shadow now and it would be dark soon, but she could see plenty of spent brass—in .223, again. Maybe they’d be able to match it to the rounds at the airport—or, if they got really lucky—lift a print or two. She picked up two casings with a small stick, one at a time, and dropped them into her pocket.

  “Tribal detective,” Gary mused, watching as she returned. “Interesting. And you?” he asked Blalock. “You aren’t with the tribe. So that makes you . . .”

  “FBI,” he said, cell phone out and already on the line with the jurisdictional law enforcement branch—the county sheriff. “Armed and extremely dangerous,” he added after describing the pair.

  As he put the phone away, Blalock looked at Ella and added, “A deputy is on the way with a crime scene team following. You and I are grounded for now. My SUV is a Swiss cheese piece of crap.”

  Gary and Dennis, who’d slung his assault rifle over his shoulder, both had their eyes on Dan.

  “Yeah, so he’s Fibbye. So what? He’s a friend and he wasn’t here to harass any legal gun owners. Agent Blalock and the lady are after the men who killed that Navajo Army Sergeant, Adam Lonewolf, the GI who was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross,” Dan said.

  The men still looked uncomfortable, so Ella smiled at them. “Those two didn’t know we were out here for target practice when they pulled up, but you boys got lucky, too. Once they saw what you brought to the range, those crazies might have turned their guns on you. Then they could have driven away with some real heavy firepower, leaving you either dead or in pieces.”

  “Point noted,” Dennis said with a nod. “You’re that hotshot Navajo cop, the one that keeps showing up on the news, right, Ella Claw?”

  “Yeah,” she confirmed.

  “No wonder you can shoot like a man,” Dennis said.

  Not really knowing how to accept the backhanded compliment, she didn’t comment. “I got the idea earlier that you guys have seen those men before. Is that true?”

  Dan nodded. “Two or three times, at least, but only from a distance. They never do more than wave or nod, and they don’t drink beer while shooting like I’ve seen a few idiots do. They keep to themselves, minding their own business and cutting loose at silhouettes with assault rifles. They’re pretty good at it, too, so they either get a lot of practice or have military experience. You agree with that, boys?” He turned to Gary and Dennis, who both nodded.

  “We appreciate you three coming to the rescue,” Ella said, still doing her best to set the men at ease. Witnesses who didn’t trust her invariably locked up or gave out bad information. Right now she needed them relaxed and talkative. Even the most minute detail could turn out to be extremely useful.

  “So, you gonna tell her?” Gary prodded.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Dennis muttered, then looked back at Ella. “I have new digital binoculars I was trying out today. Great in shadow and low light conditions, like now. I got shots of your target shooting. I also managed to get photos of the pair and their pickup as they raced off.” He handed her the binoculars, letting her see the LCD display.

  The angle had been bad and she couldn’t see their faces directly because they were looking away as they fled, but their profiles gave her a general description. Yet it was the Silverado itself that held her attention. “If you can go back and forth between those last shots of them driving off, I think I’ll be able to read that license plate.”

  Blalock came up, looking over her shoulder. As Dennis manipulated the display, they were able to get all the letters and numbers.

  Blalock called it in immediately.

  “You can take the memory card—until you’re done with it,” Dennis said, then removed it from the binoculars. “Anything I can do to help nail the bastards who killed Sergeant Lonewolf—just say the word.”

  “Thanks. This’ll help us a lot,” Ella said.

  “I saw the weapon the passenger had,” Gary said. “It was in the M-16 family, probably a civilian ArmaLite—semi-auto.”

  “I agree. That’s the same type of weapon that was used at the airstrip,” Ella said.

  “I have something else that may help you,” Dan said. “A week ago, maybe a little longer, I did some work on an AR-180B for a customer. I can’t remember his name off the cuff, but I have twenty-four/seven surveillance in the shop interior. His face is going to be in there somewhere. He might be one of your attackers.”

  “We’ll need to go through that,” Bla
lock said, but before he could say anything else, his cell phone rang.

  As Blalock turned away and focused on the report he was getting, Ella questioned Dan further. “Think hard, and try to recall the name of the ArmaLite’s owner.”

  Dan stared at the ground for several long moments. Finally looking up, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I get a lot of business. The economy and the talk show hacks are all generating a lot of fear—and that means sales of guns and ammo are way up. All my business is legal, but a lot of people come through my doors.”

  Ella was about to press him when Blalock took her aside. “We got a hit on the Silverado. The tags are in the name of a Shawn O’Riley. A deputy’s on his way over to the residence. He’ll maintain surveillance until we arrive. SWAT’s on the way, too—and the Bloomfield PD has been notified.”

  Blalock gestured toward the approaching emergency lights flashing in the distance. “That’s probably the deputy they dispatched. He’ll take over here until the county’s crime scene team arrives.”

  “We still need transport,” Ella pointed out, gesturing to their bullet-ridden SUV.

  “We’ll ride in with Dan and Gary, and Dennis can walk back and pick up Dan’s pickup at the bluff,” Blalock said. “Another deputy will meet us at the gun shop with an unmarked vehicle we can use.” As his phone rang, Blalock placed it to his ear. “Stand by. We’ll be there shortly.”

  “The deputy’s in place at O’Riley’s. There’s a dark blue sedan parked in the driveway, but no Silverado.”

  “Either that’s a second car, or they may have ditched the wheels, figuring we’d have an ATL on the truck. They don’t know we got the plates and can ID the person, not just the truck, so we might get lucky and catch him at home,” Ella said. “And it’s not likely the truck was stolen. Those guys were just out here for some target practice.”

  As they rode back into town, Ella was squeezed between two large, heavily armed men with barely enough room to breathe. Gary, who was driving, looked uncomfortable, and Dan, on her other side, was almost sideways in the seat. Blalock was lodged against the far side, his elbow resting against the door frame of the open window.