Deadeye (16 page)

Ford was led away, and Wilkins escorted the officers back to the reception area. Once they retrieved their weapons, it was back to the parking lot. It felt like a furnace inside the truck, but the interior began to cool as the AC came on. “So, what do you think?” Omo inquired.

“I think we're onto something,” Lee answered. “We knew that Amanda was delivered to Wheels by parties unknown—and we knew that Wheels took girls across the border on a regular basis. Now we know who he handed them off to. But where did Rictor take them? That's the question.”

The first part of the drive north was uneventful, but that changed as a call came over the radio. “This is Nora-One-One with a code three. We have what looks like multiple missile strikes north of Phoenix. I can see at least a dozen columns of smoke. Over.” That was followed by
more
calls and requests for aid units.

“Shit,” Omo said. “It looks like the Tecs are at it again. We'd better get up there and lend a hand.” Police lights were hidden behind the truck's grill. They began to flash, and a siren began to wail as Omo pulled into the fast lane and put his foot down. Lee wished she was behind the wheel as cars hurried to pull over.

Omo called in and was told to report to headquarters. It wasn't long before they could see the columns of smoke for themselves, and as they neared the building, two cruisers passed them headed in the other direction.

Omo cut the siren and waved at a security guard as he turned into the parking lot. Lee opened the door and dropped to the ground. That was when she noticed the yellow school bus. It was traveling at a high rate of speed and headed straight for the headquarters building! A car spun out of the way as the vehicle struck it. “Ras! Look! The bus is going to hit the main entrance!”

Omo swore and was reaching into the truck when the vehicle hit an officer and tossed her through the air. Then Lee heard a loud crash as the bus hit the checkpoint and kept on going. She figured the bus was loaded with explosives, and was waiting for an explosion, as it screeched to a stop. That was when people dressed in hoods and black combat gear poured out of the vehicle. Omo had the 12-gauge by then and waved her forward. “Come on! Let's stop those bastards!”

Attackers were still spilling out of the bus as they ran. Lee estimated that at least ten of them were on the street, all wearing knapsacks and armed with machine pistols. Most ran toward the entrance, but a few stopped and turned their backs to it. It didn't take a genius to figure out that they were supposed to provide security.

Bullets chewed into the asphalt directly in front of Omo's cowboy boots as one of the pistoleros fired his weapon one-handed. The so-called Equalizer went off with a loud boom, and a load of double-ought buck snatched the terrorist off his feet.

Lee was pretty sure that the attackers were wearing body armor so it was hard to tell if any of the big pellets got through. It didn't matter, though, because a powerful explosion tossed the Tec up into the air two seconds later. The body seemed to hang there for a moment before landing with a meaty thump.

That was when Lee understood why the attackers were armed with weapons they could fire one-handed. The other hand was holding a dead man's switch connected to the explosives stored in their knapsacks. Once they let go, BOOM!

The Glock was out by then . . . And she heard the chatter of a machine pistol as a second attacker pulled the trigger and held it back. But the recoil caused the barrel to rise and bullets were flying over Lee's head as she fired in return. The terrorist was forced to take a step backwards each time a .9mm slug hit his chest protector. Then he tripped on a curb, threw his left hand out in order to break the fall, and blew up.

Another more powerful blast followed that. A shock wave knocked Lee off her feet. She thought she was dead at first, or severely wounded, but managed to stand. That was when Lee realized that she'd been correct . . . The bus had been loaded with explosives and timed to blow. All that remained of it was some blackened wreckage, which was on fire. She was still thinking about that when Omo appeared at her side. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah . . . And you?”

“I think I caught some pieces of shrapnel. Nothing serious though. Come on . . . Some of those assholes got inside.”

They ran past a couple of dead deputies and the blazing bus to the checkpoint. It had been obliterated by a bomb blast. All they could do was keep going.

Weapons at the ready, they entered the building. Three civilians lay sprawled in the lobby. All of them had multiple gunshot wounds. Omo swore. “We'll take the stairs.”

As Lee followed Omo upward, she heard the muted pop, pop, pop, of a semiauto followed by the rattle of a machine pistol. They arrived on the second floor to find a woman and two children huddled in a corner. Omo flashed his badge, and whispered. “Which way?”

The woman pointed to the hall and hooked her thumb to the left. Omo nodded and told her to stay put. Then, with Lee right behind him, he hurried down the hall with the shotgun at the ready. A female deputy, gun in hand, lay sprawled in the corridor.

By that time, they could see the makeshift barricade that had been thrown up in a futile effort to keep the terrorists out. It was made out of chairs, tables, and a watercooler. Not enough to stop the bomber who blew a hole through it. Chunks of flesh were stuck to the walls, and there was a large patch of blood on the ceiling.

Lee crawled up to the barrier and peered through one of the many gaps. That's when she saw the figure in black standing in front of an office filled with terrified workers. He was lecturing them in Spanish while he kept one arm wrapped around a woman's neck. His right hand was clenched tight. Was he holding a dead man's switch? Lee thought so.

As Omo arrived, Lee pulled him in close. “This guy has a hostage but no machine pistol. I want you to stand up and get his attention. In the meantime, I'll circle around, reach in, and get control of the switch. Once I have hold of his hand, shoot the son of a bitch in the head.
Not
the body because he's wearing armor.”

“That's bullshit,” Omo whispered in return. “
You
talk to him while I . . .” But Lee was gone by then. She scooted along the barrier to the wall where a small gap offered a chance to wiggle through. Behind her, she could hear Omo speaking in Spanish and stalling for time. Would the plan work? Lee hoped so as she pushed her way through the hole and into the office beyond.

Two of the office workers saw her and Lee held a finger up to her lips. Then she turned to face the Tec and confirmed that he was fully engaged with Omo. They were yelling insults at each other, and Lee knew things wouldn't get any better than that. So she put the Glock away, assumed a crouch, and took off.

The terrorist saw movement out of the corner of his eye, let go of the hostage, and tried to grab the machine pistol holstered on his thigh. But he was too slow. Lee collided with him and got a hold of his fist. Her job was to hold his thumb down and keep it there. Nothing else mattered. She was about to yell “Shoot him!” when one of the big revolvers went off. It was loud in the enclosed space, and the top half of the Aztec's head flew off. Warm blood fell like rain.

The terrorist fell, and Lee went with him, still clutching his hand. The floor came up hard but Lee refused to let go as Omo yelled at people. “Call bomb disposal! Tell them we have live explosives at this location . . . And get out of here.”

*   *   *

Unfortunately, all the bomb-disposal experts were out in the field working to defuse rockets that had failed to explode. And that, Omo realized, was part of a very sophisticated plan. The first step was to launch rockets, some of which weren't armed, and wait for the police to respond. Then the ground attack could begin.

All he could do was tell Lee to hang on as he left to check on the floor above. Like the second floor, the third had been attacked, and thanks to the number of deputies who had been drawn away, was only lightly defended. And those who were present lay scattered about. Two were wounded, but the rest were dead.

It appeared as though at least one of the terrorists had been able to penetrate the bull pen, where he or she had blown themselves up. There was a black spot on the floor, the surrounding partitions were down, and blood splatter was all around.

As he made his way back toward the sheriff's office, he could see that Arpo's secretary was slumped facedown on his desk and the wall behind him was riddled with bullet holes. So it was with a sense of trepidation that Omo entered Arpo's office. And the sense of concern deepened when he saw splotches of red on the sheriff's back. It looked as though he'd been hit by bullets that passed through the wall.

The scooter produced a whining sound as the sheriff turned around. He was talking on a cell phone. “Call me when you know how many people we lost,” he said to the person on the other end of the call before thumbing the device off.

“That's right,” Arpo said as his eyes made contact with Omo's. “I'm still alive. That's the good thing about being fat . . . There's nothing like a layer of lard to slow bullets down.”

“I'll call for some EMTs.”

“Don't bother,” Arpo said. “They're busy. Has the building been secured?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Detective Lee?”

“She killed one of the bombers and managed to disarm another one.”

Arpo nodded. “Not bad for a norm. Tell her I said, ‘Thanks.'”

“I will.”

Arpo raised his eyebrows. “So? What are you waiting for? A fucking commendation? Get back to work.” Omo sighed. It seemed that some things would never change. He left the room.

*   *   *

Lee had been clutching the dead man's hand for more than an hour before a bomb-disposal expert finally arrived. Then it was another ten minutes before she could let go. “Thank you,” Lee said as she got up off the floor. The Tec had emptied his bowels seconds after his death, and she was sick of the foul odor.

“I'm the one who should thank
you
,” the deputy said soberly. “My wife works in this office.”

Omo was waiting, and together they made their way down the stairs, past the triage center that had been set up in the lobby, and out onto the street. Cruisers continued to pour in from neighboring counties as they crossed the parking lot. And a good thing, too, since it sounded as if 10 percent of Arpo's officers had been wounded or killed. Other cities had been hit as well including Tucson, Yuma, Las Cruces, Carlsbad, Laredo, and McAllen.

Those attacks had not gone unanswered. According to news reports, the army and air force were launching retaliatory strikes into the Aztec Empire, and a formal declaration of war would be made soon. “So what happens now?” Lee inquired as she entered the truck. “Am I about to lose you?”

Omo shook his head. “Nope. Not yet anyway.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Lee replied.

“What?” Omo demanded. “You
want
me as a partner?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I'm hungry,” Lee said, in a transparent attempt to change the subject. It was midafternoon by then, and they hadn't had lunch.

“I'll take you to dinner,” Omo offered. “Assuming that Lonigan's wasn't struck by a missile.”

“Lonigan's?”

“My favorite steak house.”

“A steak sounds good. But we'll have to use the phone trick again.”

Lonigan's was mostly empty due to the missile attack and the relatively early hour. So they were able to get two tables back in a corner well away from everyone else. Conversing by phone was awkward, but necessary, and even with that, Lee knew she was taking a chance.

The ceilings were low, the walls were a dark red color, and the tables were covered with white linen. And somewhere between drinks and their desserts the conversation turned to things other than work. That was when Lee learned about Omo's interest in painting. And by the time they walked out into the cool night air, something was different. “So,” Omo said. “Would you like to see them?”

“See what?”

“My paintings.”

As always, Omo's features were hidden by a mask. “Your paintings?” she inquired. “Or your bed?”

Omo looked away. “My paintings.”

“I'm sorry, Ras. That was stupid.”

“No,” he said. “I know how men look at you. It must happen all the time.”

“That's a crock,” Lee said. “Let's go. I want to see your paintings.”

It was a short drive to a slightly seedy area and the flat-roofed adobe two-story that Omo lived in. The front of the building consisted of two garage-style doors. One of them rumbled up out of the way as Omo thumbed a remote. “This was a small garage back before the plague,” he explained. “I like it because I can park inside, and there's plenty of room on the second floor.”

The lights came on as the truck pulled in, and Lee was impressed by how clean and tidy the apartment was. One entire wall was taken up by a shelving, a workbench with nothing on it, and a waist-high metal tool chest.

Omo led the way up a flight of gray wooden stairs to the floor above. What Lee saw as the lights came on was very different from what she had expected. Except for three vertical posts, the room was open. And, thanks to the high ceilings, the space felt even larger than it was.

A simple kitchen was positioned against the right-hand wall and was open to the adjacent sitting area. And, way in the back, she could see a large wardrobe and a bed. But with those exceptions, the rest of the room was dedicated to painting. A huge easel was positioned under a skylight. It occupied a paint-splattered tarp, which, had it been framed, would have been reminiscent of a Jackson Pollock painting.

But there was nothing expressionist about the landscapes that hung on the north wall. As Lee moved closer, she saw beautiful desert scenes, the sun rising over the Superstition Mountains, and a vista of what she imagined to be the Colorado River. “This is beautiful,” she said. “It reminds me of Albert Bierstadt's work. I see some of the same reach and luminosity.”