The Killing Place, page 7
“Just like I asked,” the old man said approvingly. “That will tie in nicely with our media connection. Let’s use that a bit later, as if Melanie Chase just discovered it. We can spin it like Hernandez pressured his deputy into it.”
The old man’s voice faded, and the last few words came out punctuated by faint gasps.
Three electronic beeps sounded through the line.
The senator spoke next. “It’ll be a one-two punch. It’s perfect.”
“The exhaustion and PTSD will be more believable,” the FBI man said, his jealousy of the senator obvious in his voice.
“Both will be needed,” the old man said so faintly they had to strain to hear him. “Get it done. I want it on the news by tomorrow night.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Stuart hated these long drives with Alexa. When they ran out of work things to talk about, they’d settle into an awkward silence that would last for miles.
It was his fault, mostly. He shouldn’t have shown interest. She obviously thought it was inappropriate. Fine. Fair enough. But she didn’t have to act so weird around him.
At least they were getting into Window Rock, the capital of the Navajo Nation right next to the New Mexico state line. There they were going to meet some tribal policeman Alexa knew.
The terrain had grown hillier, with bare rock outcroppings rising above the grassy uplands dotted with trees. The wind had carved the rocks into weird formations. Some looked like waves on the sea. Others resembled animals, if you used your imagination. The differing layers of red, pink, and white stone made them look painted.
Only a few isolated ranch houses were scattered through this terrain, and as they got to Window Rock, the town didn’t look like it had more than a few thousand residents.
Alexa gave him directions through quiet streets flanked by prefab housing and the occasional storefront and had him pull up in front of a large red brick building that resembled a modern recreation of some of the centuries-old pueblos he had seen on road trips with Annette.
The memory brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Why had she dumped him out of the blue? She said it was because he was getting too serious. Ridiculous. Didn’t women always complain men were the ones afraid of commitment?
He parked, and noticed a short, husky man in the tan uniform of the tribal police walking over to them. Alexa smiled—the first real smile he had seen her make in days—and leapt out of the car.
“Roy! How have you been?”
“Hey, Alexa.”
They gave each other a hug, making Stuart start with surprise. He’d never seen her hug anyone except the kid. He wondered if these two had a history, despite the Navajo officer being at least ten years older.
That suspicion disappeared a moment later when Alexa asked,
“So how’s the family?”
“Oh, everyone’s doing just fine. The kids have gotten into camping. I hardly see them on weekends, but they always come back with something for the Sunday night cookout.”
Stuart walked over. The officer turned to him and extended a hand.
“You must be Stuart Barrett, the FBI man. Alexa has told me a lot about you.”
Really?
“Pleased to meet you,” Stuart said.
“I’m Roy Whitehat.”
“You the chief of police?”
“This is the Rez. We’re all chiefs here.”
Stuart wondered if that was a joke. He did think he detected a slight upward tug around the edges of the lips.
“Um, OK.”
“So Alexa told me you’re here to talk to Seth Begaye. He’s a bad customer. Glad he lives so far out. I can’t imagine how much trouble he’d get into if he lived here in Window Rock. We’ll have to use my four-by-four. That city boy Lexus the feds gave you won’t make it.”
“All right.”
Roy Whitehat led them to a four-by-four parked by the government building. Stuart noticed several others in the parking lot. Unlike the ones you saw in Phoenix, purchased to make their owners look cool as they drove city streets, these all looked like they had spent a lot of time driving over rough terrain. They were dusty and had scratches and dings all over them.
The officer led them to the most banged up one.
“You sit up front,” he told Stuart. “I bet you’ve never been to the Rez before and I want you to see it.”
“All right.”
They climbed in. Roy Whitehat started the engine, which purred with fine-tuned power. The police radio crackled to life with people speaking a strange, clipped language that Stuart assumed to be Navajo.
“So what can you tell us about Jesse Running Wolf?” Alexa asked from the back seat.
Stuart felt a flicker of irritation. It looked like Alexa had already told her friend about the identity of the victim, but hadn’t informed Stuart of this step. Stuart wasn’t sure if that was a breach of regulations or not, but was certainly sure Alexa didn’t care. He had long ago noticed that she had a relaxed attitude with fellow officers she considered her friends.
Apparently he didn’t qualify as one of those.
“He never was much of a troublemaker, although he drank and took drugs. Got him a few times for drunk and disorderly and possession of alcohol.” Whitehat glanced at Stuart, “The Rez is dry. But he never was violent. Wish I could say the same for Seth Begaye. That guy’s been trouble since he was twelve years old. We have to consider him armed and dangerous.”
“Didn’t you confiscate his firearms after the latest incident?” Stuart asked.
“Of course. But everybody’s got a shotgun and a rifle in their home. He could have borrowed one. At least it’s daytime. People like that sleep until noon. He’s probably as sober as we’ll ever see him right now. If it was night time I’d say wait until morning, but right now is the best time to get him.”
They drove along a quiet road, only seeing a few pickup trucks, and were soon out of town, heading north. After a few minutes, the Navajo officer spoke again.
“So Agent Barret, you know why my last name is Whitehat? It’s a common name for Navajo people.”
“No. Why?”
“It comes from the days of the Old West, when the bad guys wore black hats and the good guys wore white hats. We got tired of the Great Father in Washington treating us like bad guys, so we all started wearing white hats. It sure fooled him. He gave us all this wonderful land to live on.”
Stuart gave an awkward smile. He could tell he was being made fun of. Once a case took him to inner city Baltimore, where a trio of local black cops teased the lone white guy mercilessly until they nabbed the suspect together. Then they treated him to the best cookout of his life.
“Here. I want to show you something.”
Whitehat pulled over to a parking lot by the side of the road. Beyond it rose a high ridge sculpted by the elements. A giant hole perforated one part of it, forming an almost perfect circle.
“Wow,” Stuart said, impressed. “I guess this is Window Rock.”
“You are wise in the ways of the red man,” Whitehat said, prompting Stuart to roll his eyes. “Do you know what it’s for?”
“What it’s for?”
“It’s sacred. Every year our medicine men pray for rain in the Water Way Ceremony. They offer water in four sacred spots to bring the rains. This is one of them.”
Stuart nodded, sensing Whitehat was being serious this time.
“And do you know what this is?” Whitehat asked, pulling up beside a long plaque adorned with names.
“Looks like a war memorial,” Stuart said.
“It is. For World War Two. I got two great uncles on that plaque.”
“Cool. We learned about the Code Talkers in basic training.”
Whitehat looked at him. “You served?”
“Two tours of duty in Iraq for the 1st Infantry Division.”
“The Big Red One? Nice. I never joined up, although I had a cousin who went to Afghanistan. We got our own war right here, against all the junk that made Seth Begaye a burden on everyone around him. Speaking of, let’s cut the tourism and get back on the job.”
Whitehat pulled out, and they sped along a long, straight, two-lane road.
The land grew ever more remote, a rough terrain of rolling high plains and jagged outcroppings of rocks now and then cut by step-sided ravines. A couple of times Stuart spotted riders and once a large flock of sheep. They saw few houses, although every now and then he’d see multi-sided log cabins, the traditional hogans he had read about.
After half an hour they turned off the two-lane road and onto a dirt road. They passed a cluster of two hogans and three trailers and made their way further on toward a distant ridge as several dogs yapped and chased the four-by-four.
“Seth Begaye lives at the base of that ridge with his mother,” Whitehat said.
“Even after he shot up the place?” Stuart asked.
The Navajo shrugged. “He’s family.”
The four-by-four trundled along as the track became rougher, with deep ruts and large stones in the path. Stuart wondered why anyone would want to live this far out. He didn’t ask, though, because Whitehat would probably rib him with some sarcastic remark.
On second thought, maybe not. Glancing at him, he saw the older man’s face set in grim determination, and Stuart guessed it wasn’t the difficulty in driving. Seth Begaye was dangerous. Stuart’s hand strayed to the 9mm Glock in his shoulder holster. He’d been getting into way too many gunfights since teaming up with Alexa. He hoped he wasn’t going to get into another one today.
At last a small trailer appeared in the distance, with a bright white plastic outhouse to the side like they used at construction sites, as well as a smaller wooden shack.
“We’ll let you take the lead on this,” Stuart said.
“I intend to,” Whitehat said.
Stuart glanced back at Alexa, whose hand rested on the butt of the pistol on her gun belt. She gave him a curt nod. He nodded back. Despite the tension between them, he knew he could rely on her, and he truly hoped she knew the same about him.
He turned to face forward, eyes scanning the terrain for signs of movement. They were kicking up enough dust that if Begaye was awake he would have spotted them ten minutes ago. Stuart doubted they got many visitors out here. That would put the suspect on alert.
Which meant Begaye could have set himself up behind any of these rocks, or in any of these gullies, with a gun pointed right at them. So Stuart needed to watch the surrounding desert with a soldier’s eyes. It made him feel like when he was riding on convoy in Al Anbar province.
A minute later, as they got within a quarter mile of the trailer, that vigilance paid off. A spark of sunlight off metal made him focus on a crack between two rocks the size of overturned bathtubs about a hundred yards to their right.
The barrel of a rifle stuck between the two rocks, pointing right at them.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Gun at two o’clock!” Stuart shouted.
Alexa ducked, instinctively knowing that Stuart’s warning would be followed by a bullet.
It was.
There was a loud bang on the right side of the four-by-four. The vehicle swerved to the right. Roy Whitehat cursed and struggled with the steering wheel as they ripped through a bush, bucked over a large rock, and finally ground to a stop in a shallow gully.
“Got a tire!” Whitehat shouted. “Everyone OK?”
“Yeah,” Alexa and Stuart said, both of them hunched over to make as small of targets as possible.
A second shot spiderwebbed Stuart’s window, but the bulletproof glass held.
“Let’s get him,” Whitehat said.
They all got out on the driver’s side, keeping the heavy police vehicle between them and the shooter.
A third shot came, whizzing through the air above them.
Alexa and the other two huddled behind the engine block. Whitehat had pulled a pump-action shotgun from the vehicle. She and Stuart both had drawn their 9mm pistols. None of their firearms were a match for a hunting rifle at this range.
“He’s between those two big rocks to our right,” Stuart said.
Alexa dared a peek over. She saw the two rocks, but didn’t see Begaye. She watched the spot, keeping her head barely above the hood, the engine heat making the scene waver.
No sign of him. A soft sound to her left made her duck down and look. Stuart had cut that way, slipping into the gully and worming his way along, ignoring the grit and clutching brush. That man may love his suits, but he had sure ruined plenty in the line of duty.
“I’m going to cut to the right,” Whitehat whispered. “Cover us from here.”
“All right.”
She braced her pistol on the hood of the car and waited for Begaye to show himself.
Where the hell was he, anyway? Three shots in rapid succession and now he wasn’t even peeking in their direction. Alexa wondered if he was still even behind those rocks. It was hard to see from their vantage point, but while the land beyond the pair of rocks looked like open plain, there might be a gully or a slope of ground that could hide his retreat.
Her gaze flicked to the left and right. Stuart had left the gully, which paralleled the road, and had gotten behind a rock barely big enough to cover him. After a moment he darted to an even smaller one closer to Begaye’s last known position. To the right, Alexa couldn’t see Whitehat at all.
That didn’t surprise her. That man stalked men like he stalked game.
Except men shot back.
And this one did now, right at Alexa.
The bullet panged off the engine block. Alexa ducked to the left, crouching behind the tire. A surge of adrenaline kept her from feeling the pain this sudden movement must have caused. She leaned around the front fender so she could return fire.
But Seth Begaye had already ducked out of sight.
She stared at the rock for a moment, pistol moving slightly to cover all its edges, wherever he might pop out.
When he didn’t in the first second, she fired anyway, three measured shots. Two at the rock and one at the dirt just to the left of it. Hopefully that would keep Begaye’s head down long enough for the guys to get into position.
Instead, it had the opposite effect.
There was a flash of movement beyond the rocks as Begaye bolted, moving from bush to bush, stone to stone with impressive skill for someone whose rap sheet told of a life spent abusing his body.
And he looked it too. A heavyset, almost obese man in a t-shirt, jeans, and cowboy hat. It amazed her he could move so well.
“Stop right now and put your hands in the air!” Whitehat shouted from some unseen spot.
Begaye turned and leveled his rifle. Alexa fired, and to her left she heard Stuart fire too, but they were too far away. Both shots missed.
Begaye’s gun didn’t fire. He cursed, struggled with it, and threw it on the ground.
Dumbass didn’t fill the magazine or bring any backup ammo.
Now unarmed, Seth Begaye ran off toward his mother’s trailer.
To get another gun? To get into that pickup she could see parked there?
They couldn’t afford to find out. They had to run that guy down.
Alexa circled the police vehicle to check out the damage. The tire was as flat as could be and with no time to change it, she started huffing down the road, Stuart already well ahead of her. Neither could fire at the fleeting fugitive. Even though he had fired at them, he was now unarmed and they could not use their weapons. Facing criminals was always an unfair fight, with law enforcement bound by rules and the criminals answering to no one.
Alexa’s knife wound to the side began to hurt within ten yards. After twenty yards her other cuts and bruises hurt too. She tried to ignore the pain and keep up speed.
But she couldn’t. Stuart pulled ahead, and after a few more seconds Whitehat ran past her so fast she felt like she was standing still.
Cursing to herself, she strived to keep up, while watching Stuart and Whitehat move further and further ahead.
At least those two were gaining ground on Begaye.
The fugitive looked over his shoulder and saw the two officers, now almost neck and neck, had nearly caught up to him.
Up ahead, the door to his trailer opened and a small, gray-haired woman looked out.
That must be his mother. I wonder what she’s thinking seeing her son like this.
Sadly, she’s probably not surprised. She’s probably seen it before, the poor woman.
How does a mother handle a child who does nothing but get into trouble?
Seth Begaye must have realized he wouldn’t make it back to his trailer, still a couple of hundred yards away. He turned and stopped.
Was he going to surrender? Did the sight of his long-suffering mother put some sense into his head?
No. He bent down and picked up a rock.
Stuart and Whitehat stopped, both with their guns leveled.
“Drop it!” Whitehat shouted.
Begaye, panting, his body soaked in sweat, paused for a second, and then threw the rock at them.
He missed by a yard.
With a roar, he charged at the two officers, looking for all the world like an enraged bull.
Both officers showed their professionalism by putting away their guns. As tempting as it could be, especially in this case, both men knew they couldn’t shoot an unarmed suspect.
That didn’t mean they’d submit to him either. Stuart got into a fighting stance. Whitehat drew his nightstick.
Begaye barreled into Stuart, who flipped him. The suspect landed hard on the ground, and Whitehat smacked him hard with his nightstick.
That only seemed to enrage Begaye, who struggled to his feet while Stuart tried to get him in an armlock.
He was only half successful, bringing Begaye to his knees but getting a left hook to the side of his head in return. Stuart staggered, but managed to hold onto the man’s arm. Whitehat smacked Begaye a couple of more times with the nightstick, keeping him down.
Alexa tried to pick up speed and join the fight, but her side felt like it was on fire, and every bruise that intruder had given her the week before felt alive, like his ghost was punching and kicking her all over again.
The old man’s voice faded, and the last few words came out punctuated by faint gasps.
Three electronic beeps sounded through the line.
The senator spoke next. “It’ll be a one-two punch. It’s perfect.”
“The exhaustion and PTSD will be more believable,” the FBI man said, his jealousy of the senator obvious in his voice.
“Both will be needed,” the old man said so faintly they had to strain to hear him. “Get it done. I want it on the news by tomorrow night.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Stuart hated these long drives with Alexa. When they ran out of work things to talk about, they’d settle into an awkward silence that would last for miles.
It was his fault, mostly. He shouldn’t have shown interest. She obviously thought it was inappropriate. Fine. Fair enough. But she didn’t have to act so weird around him.
At least they were getting into Window Rock, the capital of the Navajo Nation right next to the New Mexico state line. There they were going to meet some tribal policeman Alexa knew.
The terrain had grown hillier, with bare rock outcroppings rising above the grassy uplands dotted with trees. The wind had carved the rocks into weird formations. Some looked like waves on the sea. Others resembled animals, if you used your imagination. The differing layers of red, pink, and white stone made them look painted.
Only a few isolated ranch houses were scattered through this terrain, and as they got to Window Rock, the town didn’t look like it had more than a few thousand residents.
Alexa gave him directions through quiet streets flanked by prefab housing and the occasional storefront and had him pull up in front of a large red brick building that resembled a modern recreation of some of the centuries-old pueblos he had seen on road trips with Annette.
The memory brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Why had she dumped him out of the blue? She said it was because he was getting too serious. Ridiculous. Didn’t women always complain men were the ones afraid of commitment?
He parked, and noticed a short, husky man in the tan uniform of the tribal police walking over to them. Alexa smiled—the first real smile he had seen her make in days—and leapt out of the car.
“Roy! How have you been?”
“Hey, Alexa.”
They gave each other a hug, making Stuart start with surprise. He’d never seen her hug anyone except the kid. He wondered if these two had a history, despite the Navajo officer being at least ten years older.
That suspicion disappeared a moment later when Alexa asked,
“So how’s the family?”
“Oh, everyone’s doing just fine. The kids have gotten into camping. I hardly see them on weekends, but they always come back with something for the Sunday night cookout.”
Stuart walked over. The officer turned to him and extended a hand.
“You must be Stuart Barrett, the FBI man. Alexa has told me a lot about you.”
Really?
“Pleased to meet you,” Stuart said.
“I’m Roy Whitehat.”
“You the chief of police?”
“This is the Rez. We’re all chiefs here.”
Stuart wondered if that was a joke. He did think he detected a slight upward tug around the edges of the lips.
“Um, OK.”
“So Alexa told me you’re here to talk to Seth Begaye. He’s a bad customer. Glad he lives so far out. I can’t imagine how much trouble he’d get into if he lived here in Window Rock. We’ll have to use my four-by-four. That city boy Lexus the feds gave you won’t make it.”
“All right.”
Roy Whitehat led them to a four-by-four parked by the government building. Stuart noticed several others in the parking lot. Unlike the ones you saw in Phoenix, purchased to make their owners look cool as they drove city streets, these all looked like they had spent a lot of time driving over rough terrain. They were dusty and had scratches and dings all over them.
The officer led them to the most banged up one.
“You sit up front,” he told Stuart. “I bet you’ve never been to the Rez before and I want you to see it.”
“All right.”
They climbed in. Roy Whitehat started the engine, which purred with fine-tuned power. The police radio crackled to life with people speaking a strange, clipped language that Stuart assumed to be Navajo.
“So what can you tell us about Jesse Running Wolf?” Alexa asked from the back seat.
Stuart felt a flicker of irritation. It looked like Alexa had already told her friend about the identity of the victim, but hadn’t informed Stuart of this step. Stuart wasn’t sure if that was a breach of regulations or not, but was certainly sure Alexa didn’t care. He had long ago noticed that she had a relaxed attitude with fellow officers she considered her friends.
Apparently he didn’t qualify as one of those.
“He never was much of a troublemaker, although he drank and took drugs. Got him a few times for drunk and disorderly and possession of alcohol.” Whitehat glanced at Stuart, “The Rez is dry. But he never was violent. Wish I could say the same for Seth Begaye. That guy’s been trouble since he was twelve years old. We have to consider him armed and dangerous.”
“Didn’t you confiscate his firearms after the latest incident?” Stuart asked.
“Of course. But everybody’s got a shotgun and a rifle in their home. He could have borrowed one. At least it’s daytime. People like that sleep until noon. He’s probably as sober as we’ll ever see him right now. If it was night time I’d say wait until morning, but right now is the best time to get him.”
They drove along a quiet road, only seeing a few pickup trucks, and were soon out of town, heading north. After a few minutes, the Navajo officer spoke again.
“So Agent Barret, you know why my last name is Whitehat? It’s a common name for Navajo people.”
“No. Why?”
“It comes from the days of the Old West, when the bad guys wore black hats and the good guys wore white hats. We got tired of the Great Father in Washington treating us like bad guys, so we all started wearing white hats. It sure fooled him. He gave us all this wonderful land to live on.”
Stuart gave an awkward smile. He could tell he was being made fun of. Once a case took him to inner city Baltimore, where a trio of local black cops teased the lone white guy mercilessly until they nabbed the suspect together. Then they treated him to the best cookout of his life.
“Here. I want to show you something.”
Whitehat pulled over to a parking lot by the side of the road. Beyond it rose a high ridge sculpted by the elements. A giant hole perforated one part of it, forming an almost perfect circle.
“Wow,” Stuart said, impressed. “I guess this is Window Rock.”
“You are wise in the ways of the red man,” Whitehat said, prompting Stuart to roll his eyes. “Do you know what it’s for?”
“What it’s for?”
“It’s sacred. Every year our medicine men pray for rain in the Water Way Ceremony. They offer water in four sacred spots to bring the rains. This is one of them.”
Stuart nodded, sensing Whitehat was being serious this time.
“And do you know what this is?” Whitehat asked, pulling up beside a long plaque adorned with names.
“Looks like a war memorial,” Stuart said.
“It is. For World War Two. I got two great uncles on that plaque.”
“Cool. We learned about the Code Talkers in basic training.”
Whitehat looked at him. “You served?”
“Two tours of duty in Iraq for the 1st Infantry Division.”
“The Big Red One? Nice. I never joined up, although I had a cousin who went to Afghanistan. We got our own war right here, against all the junk that made Seth Begaye a burden on everyone around him. Speaking of, let’s cut the tourism and get back on the job.”
Whitehat pulled out, and they sped along a long, straight, two-lane road.
The land grew ever more remote, a rough terrain of rolling high plains and jagged outcroppings of rocks now and then cut by step-sided ravines. A couple of times Stuart spotted riders and once a large flock of sheep. They saw few houses, although every now and then he’d see multi-sided log cabins, the traditional hogans he had read about.
After half an hour they turned off the two-lane road and onto a dirt road. They passed a cluster of two hogans and three trailers and made their way further on toward a distant ridge as several dogs yapped and chased the four-by-four.
“Seth Begaye lives at the base of that ridge with his mother,” Whitehat said.
“Even after he shot up the place?” Stuart asked.
The Navajo shrugged. “He’s family.”
The four-by-four trundled along as the track became rougher, with deep ruts and large stones in the path. Stuart wondered why anyone would want to live this far out. He didn’t ask, though, because Whitehat would probably rib him with some sarcastic remark.
On second thought, maybe not. Glancing at him, he saw the older man’s face set in grim determination, and Stuart guessed it wasn’t the difficulty in driving. Seth Begaye was dangerous. Stuart’s hand strayed to the 9mm Glock in his shoulder holster. He’d been getting into way too many gunfights since teaming up with Alexa. He hoped he wasn’t going to get into another one today.
At last a small trailer appeared in the distance, with a bright white plastic outhouse to the side like they used at construction sites, as well as a smaller wooden shack.
“We’ll let you take the lead on this,” Stuart said.
“I intend to,” Whitehat said.
Stuart glanced back at Alexa, whose hand rested on the butt of the pistol on her gun belt. She gave him a curt nod. He nodded back. Despite the tension between them, he knew he could rely on her, and he truly hoped she knew the same about him.
He turned to face forward, eyes scanning the terrain for signs of movement. They were kicking up enough dust that if Begaye was awake he would have spotted them ten minutes ago. Stuart doubted they got many visitors out here. That would put the suspect on alert.
Which meant Begaye could have set himself up behind any of these rocks, or in any of these gullies, with a gun pointed right at them. So Stuart needed to watch the surrounding desert with a soldier’s eyes. It made him feel like when he was riding on convoy in Al Anbar province.
A minute later, as they got within a quarter mile of the trailer, that vigilance paid off. A spark of sunlight off metal made him focus on a crack between two rocks the size of overturned bathtubs about a hundred yards to their right.
The barrel of a rifle stuck between the two rocks, pointing right at them.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Gun at two o’clock!” Stuart shouted.
Alexa ducked, instinctively knowing that Stuart’s warning would be followed by a bullet.
It was.
There was a loud bang on the right side of the four-by-four. The vehicle swerved to the right. Roy Whitehat cursed and struggled with the steering wheel as they ripped through a bush, bucked over a large rock, and finally ground to a stop in a shallow gully.
“Got a tire!” Whitehat shouted. “Everyone OK?”
“Yeah,” Alexa and Stuart said, both of them hunched over to make as small of targets as possible.
A second shot spiderwebbed Stuart’s window, but the bulletproof glass held.
“Let’s get him,” Whitehat said.
They all got out on the driver’s side, keeping the heavy police vehicle between them and the shooter.
A third shot came, whizzing through the air above them.
Alexa and the other two huddled behind the engine block. Whitehat had pulled a pump-action shotgun from the vehicle. She and Stuart both had drawn their 9mm pistols. None of their firearms were a match for a hunting rifle at this range.
“He’s between those two big rocks to our right,” Stuart said.
Alexa dared a peek over. She saw the two rocks, but didn’t see Begaye. She watched the spot, keeping her head barely above the hood, the engine heat making the scene waver.
No sign of him. A soft sound to her left made her duck down and look. Stuart had cut that way, slipping into the gully and worming his way along, ignoring the grit and clutching brush. That man may love his suits, but he had sure ruined plenty in the line of duty.
“I’m going to cut to the right,” Whitehat whispered. “Cover us from here.”
“All right.”
She braced her pistol on the hood of the car and waited for Begaye to show himself.
Where the hell was he, anyway? Three shots in rapid succession and now he wasn’t even peeking in their direction. Alexa wondered if he was still even behind those rocks. It was hard to see from their vantage point, but while the land beyond the pair of rocks looked like open plain, there might be a gully or a slope of ground that could hide his retreat.
Her gaze flicked to the left and right. Stuart had left the gully, which paralleled the road, and had gotten behind a rock barely big enough to cover him. After a moment he darted to an even smaller one closer to Begaye’s last known position. To the right, Alexa couldn’t see Whitehat at all.
That didn’t surprise her. That man stalked men like he stalked game.
Except men shot back.
And this one did now, right at Alexa.
The bullet panged off the engine block. Alexa ducked to the left, crouching behind the tire. A surge of adrenaline kept her from feeling the pain this sudden movement must have caused. She leaned around the front fender so she could return fire.
But Seth Begaye had already ducked out of sight.
She stared at the rock for a moment, pistol moving slightly to cover all its edges, wherever he might pop out.
When he didn’t in the first second, she fired anyway, three measured shots. Two at the rock and one at the dirt just to the left of it. Hopefully that would keep Begaye’s head down long enough for the guys to get into position.
Instead, it had the opposite effect.
There was a flash of movement beyond the rocks as Begaye bolted, moving from bush to bush, stone to stone with impressive skill for someone whose rap sheet told of a life spent abusing his body.
And he looked it too. A heavyset, almost obese man in a t-shirt, jeans, and cowboy hat. It amazed her he could move so well.
“Stop right now and put your hands in the air!” Whitehat shouted from some unseen spot.
Begaye turned and leveled his rifle. Alexa fired, and to her left she heard Stuart fire too, but they were too far away. Both shots missed.
Begaye’s gun didn’t fire. He cursed, struggled with it, and threw it on the ground.
Dumbass didn’t fill the magazine or bring any backup ammo.
Now unarmed, Seth Begaye ran off toward his mother’s trailer.
To get another gun? To get into that pickup she could see parked there?
They couldn’t afford to find out. They had to run that guy down.
Alexa circled the police vehicle to check out the damage. The tire was as flat as could be and with no time to change it, she started huffing down the road, Stuart already well ahead of her. Neither could fire at the fleeting fugitive. Even though he had fired at them, he was now unarmed and they could not use their weapons. Facing criminals was always an unfair fight, with law enforcement bound by rules and the criminals answering to no one.
Alexa’s knife wound to the side began to hurt within ten yards. After twenty yards her other cuts and bruises hurt too. She tried to ignore the pain and keep up speed.
But she couldn’t. Stuart pulled ahead, and after a few more seconds Whitehat ran past her so fast she felt like she was standing still.
Cursing to herself, she strived to keep up, while watching Stuart and Whitehat move further and further ahead.
At least those two were gaining ground on Begaye.
The fugitive looked over his shoulder and saw the two officers, now almost neck and neck, had nearly caught up to him.
Up ahead, the door to his trailer opened and a small, gray-haired woman looked out.
That must be his mother. I wonder what she’s thinking seeing her son like this.
Sadly, she’s probably not surprised. She’s probably seen it before, the poor woman.
How does a mother handle a child who does nothing but get into trouble?
Seth Begaye must have realized he wouldn’t make it back to his trailer, still a couple of hundred yards away. He turned and stopped.
Was he going to surrender? Did the sight of his long-suffering mother put some sense into his head?
No. He bent down and picked up a rock.
Stuart and Whitehat stopped, both with their guns leveled.
“Drop it!” Whitehat shouted.
Begaye, panting, his body soaked in sweat, paused for a second, and then threw the rock at them.
He missed by a yard.
With a roar, he charged at the two officers, looking for all the world like an enraged bull.
Both officers showed their professionalism by putting away their guns. As tempting as it could be, especially in this case, both men knew they couldn’t shoot an unarmed suspect.
That didn’t mean they’d submit to him either. Stuart got into a fighting stance. Whitehat drew his nightstick.
Begaye barreled into Stuart, who flipped him. The suspect landed hard on the ground, and Whitehat smacked him hard with his nightstick.
That only seemed to enrage Begaye, who struggled to his feet while Stuart tried to get him in an armlock.
He was only half successful, bringing Begaye to his knees but getting a left hook to the side of his head in return. Stuart staggered, but managed to hold onto the man’s arm. Whitehat smacked Begaye a couple of more times with the nightstick, keeping him down.
Alexa tried to pick up speed and join the fight, but her side felt like it was on fire, and every bruise that intruder had given her the week before felt alive, like his ghost was punching and kicking her all over again.
