Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1)

by Cameron Curtis

  The horizontal distance is two hundred yards. Keller zeroed his scope at four hundred and calculated tables of hold-overs. The reticle in the 3.5-10x variable-power scope is graduated in minutes-of-angle. One can either dial adjustments into one of the scope turrets, or hold-over using the reticle. I don’t want to kill the dogs, so an eyeball estimate will do.

  Whether one shoots uphill or downhill, one always shoots high. The horizontal distance to a target is always shorter than the line-of-sight distance. Gravity has less time to work on the flight of a bullet. One uses the minute-of-angle adjustment appropriate to the shorter range.

  I raise the Mauser to my shoulder and aim slightly below the animals. Through the scope, the dogs look feral. The Mauser has a two-stage military trigger with four pounds of pull. I take up the slack and break the shot.

  Crack.

  The rifle slams into my shoulder. A foot from the dogs, the bullet kicks up a puff of dust. I work the bolt and fire a second time. The shot ricochets off a rock and nicks one of the animals. In a flash, the dogs disappear from view.

  I eject the spent shell casing, chamber another round, and safety the weapon. I pick up the two empty shell casings and put them in my pocket with the stripper clip. Rifle low-ready, I climb the hill. In the stifling heat, I pace myself. I walk with a measured step and measured breath.

  At the top, I cautiously approach the object. It’s spherical, covered with blond hair, matted with earth and blood. The dirt, wet with the dogs’ saliva, has turned to a muddy paste. The dogs have torn much of the skin from the object, denuding one cheekbone and the mandible.

  I stare at Mary Keller’s head.

  12

  Lazy K, 1000 Hrs Monday

  My mouth is dry as sandpaper, and my ears pound with every heartbeat. I sling the Mauser over my shoulder and carry the grisly discovery down the hill. My inclination is to carry the object by the hair. I cannot bring myself to do it. A storm rages inside me. I cradle Mary in the crook of my arm and hold her against me. When I reach the truck, I rummage under the bench seat and find a pair of oily rags and an Indian blanket. I wrap Mary in the weaved cloth and set her on the seat next to me.

  I thought war had desensitized me to death. Thought wrong. I’d seen Islamic terrorists behead prisoners of war. Never seen it done to someone close. Never a friend.

  I know what I will find at the Lazy K. I drive at a sedate pace, my breath shallow. When I reach the ranch house, I park on one side of the wide, brushed gravel driveway. The Kellers have a four-car garage, and there are no vehicles outside. I don’t want to disturb tracks in the gravel.

  The house has two stories. The ground floor spreads over eight thousand square feet. A wide front porch with metal furniture frames the entrance. The second floor, with the sleeping quarters, is a cozy four thousand square feet. Four bedrooms, a library, and a second sitting room. When I came to visit last year, Keller showed me around with pride.

  I get out of the truck, take Keller’s Winchester, and rack a shell into the chamber. I approach the house with the weapon at high port.

  In front of the garage doors, a round, dark object sits on the gravel. It was tossed from the porch, scattering blood as it sailed through the air.

  Donnie.

  The front door is ajar. I push it open with the muzzle of the Winchester. A wide, carpeted foyer greets me. To the left, an open doorway leads to the main living room. Droplets of blood trail from the living room to the front door.

  Both walls on either side of the foyer have been ventilated by shotgun pellets. Two patterns, close together. The patterns on the left are tight, the drywall shredded. The patterns on the opposite wall are more widely dispersed. Not all the pellets penetrated.

  The door to the living room is in the center of the wall. A center-fed room. Two dead zones in the corners closest the door. An operator entering the room cannot see either corner without exposing himself. A corner-fed room has a doorway at one end of the wall. An operator has only one dead zone to cover. Center-fed rooms are inherently more dangerous.

  I snap the shotgun to my shoulder, careful not to extend the barrel past the doorway.

  In the middle of the living room carpet, Mary Keller’s headless corpse has been thrown on its stomach. The back of her blouse is bloody, shredded by exit wounds. On the floor next to her lies a Mossberg Maverick pump-action shotgun. A spent shell case has rolled against one of the legs of the coffee table.

  Clearing a room is a dance. It’s balance and footwork. Especially if you are alone. With two men, I could cover one dead zone and leave the other to a partner. By myself, I have to assess each corner separately.

  I short-stock the Winchester. With the stock flat over my left shoulder, I shorten the weapon’s effective length by five inches. Weight on my left foot, I peer to the right. On the right side of the living room, in front of the widescreen, lies Donnie’s body. Like his mother, he was shot with an automatic weapon, laid on his stomach, and decapitated. Incongruously, a bloody buck knife lies on the floor between Donnie and the doorway.

  Stepping to the right, I short-stock the Winchester over my right shoulder and peer left. Capture as much of the left corner as I can. I know it is a cramped corner. Crowded by a sofa and a bookcase. Anyone waiting to ambush me is more likely to hide in the dead zone to the right. Flat against the wall, deep in the cut, weapon extended.

  I shift the shotgun to my left shoulder. Leading with my left foot, I barge into the room and snap the muzzle to cover the cut.

  Empty.

  A lethal ballet. I turn, cover the opposite corner. Alone, I have only the dead for company.

  Blood spatter stains the wall next to the entrance. The same patterns I saw from the foyer. One pattern of drops blown from a body, the height of a man’s face. They hit the wall at an angle. Another pattern the height of a man’s chest. On the floor, a brown puddle has begun to congeal. Number four birdshot. Keller would have selected that load for Mary. Inside the house, it was less likely to over-penetrate.

  The birdshot had more than enough power to punch through a grown man and an interior wall. I doubt the man survived.

  The floor around the buck knife is littered with spent brass. AK47 ammunition.

  I have no Salem numbers stored in my mobile phone. I shift the Winchester to high port and go to the landline. Eye on the entrance, I lift the handset and dial 911.

  The dispatcher at the sheriff’s station promises to send Garrick right away. I hang up and go outside. Take one of the rags from the pickup. I stare at Donnie’s head. In my heart, fury builds.

  I cover Donnie and examine the gravel. At least three sets of tire tracks. One set of off-road tires, Keller’s truck. Two sets of steel-belted radials. One set terminates at the garage door. The other set terminates in the driveway. It traces a curved V where the vehicle backed around to leave. Both sets are sedans. One from Mary’s car, the other driven by the killers.

  Squatting on my haunches, I examine the second set. On the outside, the right-hand tread is worn. The wheels are out of alignment.

  Plumes of dust rise from the access road. Garrick’s Jeep leads two police cruisers. I stand at the entrance to the driveway and hold up my hands to stop them.

  Garrick climbs out of his Jeep. “All right, Breed,” he says. “What happened?”

  I tell him Mary and Donnie have been killed. “There are tracks from the killers’ vehicle in the drive,” I say. “You’ll want to secure the crime scene and let the lab boys do their thing.”

  The sheriff directs his deputies to set up a perimeter around the house. They will need a lot of posts and yellow tape.

  “You coming?” Garrick starts toward the front door.

  I shake my head. “I’ve disturbed the scene enough,” I tell him. “The lab boys need to take exclusionary samples from me. You too, if you go inside.”

  Garrick stares for a full ten seconds. He grunts, goes inside alone.

  I watch the deputies string crime scene tape. Wait
for Garrick to return.

  Fifteen minutes inside the house, and Garrick comes straight to me. “Same ones who murdered Keller.”

  “I think so.”

  A blue Civic sedan pulls up behind the police cruisers. Anya Stein gets out and strides toward us.

  “What do you think,” she says to Garrick.

  “Well, good morning to you too, Miss Stein,” the sheriff drawls.

  “Nothing good about it so far.” Stein plants her hands on her hips. The motion brushes back her suit coat. Her weapon is indeed a SIG P226 Legion in a leather skeleton holster. Three hundred dollars more than a standard P226, the Legion is expensive and sexy.

  Not standard issue. She bought it herself.

  Doesn’t the woman sweat?

  Stein’s heart beats twice a minute.

  “They killed the woman and boy,” Garrick says. “Breed here found the woman’s head on a hilltop down the road. The boy’s is over by the garage. Same bunch who did the husband. Looks like the woman hit one of the killers.”

  “What with?”

  “Shotgun.”

  Impatient, Stein strides to the front door and pushes through.

  Lab boys will need to take another set of exclusionary samples.

  Silent, Garrick and I stare at the house. I shudder, turn to look at the hill. Think of the dogs dragging Mary’s head.

  Stein emerges from the house and does a circuit of the driveway. Examines the gravel. When she has finished her inspection, she marches to us.

  “Number four birdshot,” she announces. “Home defense load. Enough to stop an attacker but not so powerful as to over-penetrate. The boy stabbed the first man to come through the door. Bought his mother enough time to get off two rounds. One pattern got the attacker at the edge of his face. Blood spattered at an angle against the wall. The other pattern got him center mass. Tight enough to penetrate his body and one interior wall. Blood and tissue embedded in the material.”

  Stein is good. So far, her conclusions match mine.

  The woman shifts her attention to me. “You saw the brass on the floor.”

  I meet her gaze. “An AK47. The second man to enter shot her dead. Turned the weapon on the boy.”

  “How many do you think?”

  “Three or four. Probably four. You saw the tire tracks. Three men and a driver in a sedan.”

  “The first man was wounded.”

  “No, he was killed.” I think of Mary’s second shot. The pattern that caught the attacker center mass. “His friends carried him out. The blood trails look like they came from heads that were thrown onto the drive.”

  “You found the woman’s on a hill.”

  “Wild dogs dragged it away.”

  Stein wrinkles her nose. “Where is it?”

  “I gave it to one of the deputies.”

  Stein’s coldness angers me.

  Garrick stares into the middle distance. “They wouldn’t have carried away their friend if he was dead.”

  “They might have, to make our job more difficult.” Stein takes a leather-bound notebook from her handbag. With a Montblanc ballpoint pen, she scribbles notes. “They were in a hurry. They didn’t pick up their brass, they didn’t wipe the place down for prints.”

  “They weren’t expecting resistance,” I tell her. “A soldier’s wife and a soldier’s son. You’ll find blood from at least three people, a lot of fingerprints. Prints on the brass, prints on the knife. You may trace some to cartels south of the border. You’ll have to exclude us and the two ranch hands.”

  “The killers panicked,” Stein says.

  “Not all of them.” I shake my head. “One man beheaded Mary and Donnie. The same man who beheaded Keller. He was stone cold.”

  I sit in the interview room at the Salem sheriff’s station. Smaller than Garrick’s office, it is one hundred percent utilitarian. The laminated plywood tabletop is clean and functional. I review my statement once, then sign it. A sheriff’s deputy witnesses the document.

  The crime lab technicians came and took hair samples. They didn’t need fingerprints or DNA. Mine are in the army personnel database.

  “Wait outside,” the deputy says. “Sheriff might want to talk to you.”

  I stretch and lead him out of the interview room. Opposite the dispatcher’s counter, a row of chairs have been set against the wall. A pair of cowboys sit there, waiting. Keller’s ranch hands, Larry and Bo. The men look leathery and capable. The deputy directs them to the interview room.

  I pace.

  Strident voices are audible from behind the closed door of the sheriff’s office. Male voices. Garrick and Posner.

  “I want those roadblocks up,” Posner says. “You said whoever murdered Keller was in LA or Miami by now. Admit you were wrong.”

  “The roadblocks went up as soon as we found the bodies. Don’t tell me my job.”

  “I will tell you your job when I think you’re not doing it.”

  “I’m telling you I want that budget authorization. In writing.”

  “Budget over-runs happen all the time. They are resolved at the next council meeting.”

  “In writing, Goddamnit. Or the Salem Gazette will have a story about our underfunded sheriff’s office.”

  “I’ll give you the damn authorization,” Posner snarls. “But council will review the budget, and we’ll have an audit of your office.”

  The door opens and Posner storms out. He’s red-face pissed. When he sees me in the waiting area, he stops and takes a breath.

  “Mr Breed, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Garrick comes out of his office and joins us.

  “It’s clear the people who killed Mark Keller are still in the area,” I say. “These aren’t illegals or coyotes. These are cartel soldados.”

  Garrick hooks his thumbs in his belt. “Stein is operating on the assumption the killings are drug related,” he says. “She’s calling in the FBI and Border Patrol.”

  Posner looks skeptical. “To do what?”

  “The FBI will help with forensics. The Border Patrol will help us set up roadblocks on main and secondary roads.”

  “You had roadblocks up for three days last week.” I look Garrick in the eye. “You didn’t find anything because the killers never left. They are right here.”

  Garrick’s tone is defensive. “You don’t know that.”

  “It’s obvious,” I tell him. “The killings are related.”

  Two minutes ago, Garrick and Posner were at each other’s throats. Now, to mollify me, they join forces.

  “The sheriff, the FBI, and the DEA are doing everything they can,” Posner drawls. “Mr Breed, why don’t you leave this to the professionals. We’ll keep you posted.”

  “I’m in town for the week,” I say. “Someone has to make arrangements for Mary and Donnie.”

  “Well, that sounds right reasonable, Mr Breed.” Posner smiles. “The sheriff here will let you know when the medical examiner has finished.”

  I glance at the interview room. The deputy is taking statements from Larry and Bo. I leave the station and walk back to the hotel.

  One thing is certain—Salem is no longer the most peaceful sector of the border.

  13

  Bledsoe, 1300 Hrs Tuesday

  The thermometer on the dash of Keller’s truck reads one hundred and four degrees. I have the air-conditioner on full blast. The interior of the cab is as cold as a refrigerator.

  I want to look into Keller’s murder. Instinct tells me to start where soldiers always start. The battlefield, the topography, the road net. Routes for ingress and egress.

  Next to me on the bench seat is a map of Salem and the Keller ranch. Trust Keller to keep maps in his glove compartment. This map outlines the major roads and topographical features. Perfect for initial reconnaissance.

  Keller’s ten thousand acres are south of Salem. The land is immediately adjacent the border wall and the Rio Grande. The ranch house is on the northern edge, with a paved road leading to the
main highway. A dirt road runs around the perimeter… along the border wall, the stream, past the hills, and along the highway.

  I’ve driven the border, looking for breaches or fresh signs of penetration. Clothing hung up on the barrier, discarded water bottles and litter. Nothing. Garrick told me the Border Patrol inspected six miles of wall in either direction.

  Across the stream, Bledsoe Meats owns the adjoining property to the south.

  There it is. A set of squat adobe-colored buildings behind a high chain-link fence. Keller’s perimeter road forks. The right fork crosses over a bridge, onto Bledsoe land. The left fork runs east toward the hills.

  The Bledsoe fence is constructed of evenly spaced pipes fifteen feet high. At the top, the last three feet are bent outward at a forty-five-degree angle. Chain-link is stretched between the pipes for the first twelve feet. The last three are strung with strands of razor wire.

  The fence makes the buildings look menacing. Large signs are hung on the fence every two hundred yards.

  BLEDSOE MEATS LTD.

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  NO TRESPASSING

  This is West Texas, folks protect their privacy.

  There, on a low hill overlooking the plant. A flash of sunlight glinting off something shiny. Metal or glass. I drive east, my eye on the hill. Another flash.

  The road dog-legs north, skirting the base of the hills. I follow the road, part company with the stream. My view of the Bledsoe plant swings from the right passenger window to the rearview mirror. I follow the road until the plant disappears behind the hills.

  My eyes search the terrain for a break in the alluvial plain. There, at the base of the hills, is a series of draws formed by the erosion of centuries. Storms deluge the hills with rain. Water pours down, seeking routes of least resistance. Enough to carve natural cover into the earth. Dry stream beds deep enough to conceal a vehicle.

  I pull off the road and park the truck in a shallow draw. Open the door and step onto dry earth. Centuries of silt, washed down the mountains by rain. Spread over the surface by overflowing streams, then dried and baked by the sun. There are tire tracks on the stream bed. It’s a natural place to stop if one is inclined to climb the hills.