9

TARP sat in the office chairs of their conference room, as Ketchum and Fisher frowned in front of the whiteboard. No one spoke, they were about to get one of Fisher’s after action reviews, something nobody looked forward to. His years in the military and SWAT had given Fisher a no nonsense and at times truculent approach to post evolution procedures. If there was a problem, he would address it, feelings be damned. He opined that the best AARs were delivered stark naked, and he would brook no whining on the subject, an issue that had not come up since he moved to TARP. Everyone would learn something about themselves and each other here, and while a part of them welcomed it, they would not enjoy it.

“We fucked up last night,” he sighed. “And at the same time I’m not sure what we could have done different, with the exception of our initial entry. I’ve been on over two hundred entry missions as a cop alone, and I can think of two, maybe three times we backed out of a house for anything less than an IED or an automatic. It’s a valid tactic, as we all know, it just wasn’t the one we needed last night. Ideally we should have killed it while we were airborne, but I can’t fault anyone for that one. You can be the best swinging dick shooter in the world and still screw up a shot like that. We’re lucky we hit it at all. That being said, we need to train to shoot from the helo more.”

Ketchum spoke. “We’re under investigation for a week at least. We’ll use that time to train. Bocker: you, Jebbins, and I have a meeting with the brass this afternoon at headquarters. Everyone else, meet on the range at zero eight hundred. We may be drinking from the firehose with this mission, but we can’t slow down. We have to tighten up guys.”

Billy Gillicker led a full, if modest life, Evans supposed. The seventy-nine-year-old man had been found in his trailer by a neighbor around an hour before the Corporal’s arrival. More specifically he had been smelled. The neighbor noted an unusual smell coming from the old single wide, as well as a preponderance of flies buzzing around one of the windows, then remembered she hadn’t seen the old man in at least a week. After putting two and two together she had called for a welfare check, and Evans, Rialto, and two EMTs pushed past the cracked front door forty-five minutes later to see Gillicker keeled over on his moldy couch, slack jawed, eyes reduced to hollow sockets, wearing only stained boxers. His breakfast and some sort of black liquid detritus sat on a dusty coffee table in front of him. A stub of a cigarette was still clenched in the retracted fingers of his right hand, and his white, gossamer tonsure of ancient hair blew slightly between twin breezes from a window AC unit and the open door.

The living room they occupied was crated with yellowing magazines, twenty-year-old TV sets and Sony Walkmen, and mountains of various redneck debris piled in straining easy chairs. A piece of an appliance or a sleeve of a shirt would poke out from these collections like a beacon of recognition in the otherwise anonymous collections of hoarder fascination. Gillicker had not lived his last years well, thought Evans, but he had apparently lived easy. His social security checks did indeed secure everything the old man wanted in the end, and his last breaths were drawn in an environment Evans had seen all too often among the decrepit who lacked any living family, a kind of solitary nursing home that Texas and large areas of the South in general could practically copyright.

Now, as he had died alone, the coroner would be the one to release the body, based on confirmation by Evans that the death appeared natural, and the body would be carted off for holding until a next of kin could be secured. It was a multifaceted, but simple process, and one which Evans had practiced so often that his time on such calls was limited only by the speed of others. At this point they were just waiting for transport for the body, but in the meantime it could not be left.

Evans sent Rialto out to write the report while he gave the house a final scan before signing off on the release. His ulterior motive was to have her away from him, even just briefly, to consider her situation. He had a good idea of what to do, and how to arrive at the sinister promise he had already made to her, but Evans had to process any decision he made thoroughly. He preferred as much time as possible to ensure he had made the right decision when it came time to act.

He stood in the living room, looking down at Gillicker. His belt weighed on his slight frame but he was not about to sit down in this place. Another disadvantage of his Hypersport was that exposing himself to the putrid substances his job guided him to always made him feel terrible when getting back into the car. Its interior was one for clean Saville Row threads, not bloody armor or shit covered combat boots. “What am I going to do with that kid?” he asked Gillicker. There was, of course, no answer. “I guess I could hype some asshole up, put him in a fight with her, and let her figure it out herself.” Again, no response. Gillicker stared up at the ceiling, his gaping face waxen and powdered, like a Marie Tussaud replica. “I don’t want to do that with her though,” Evans continued. “She wouldn’t last. And she hasn’t done anything to deserve that one.” He wanted her to fail though, didn’t he? Yes, he thought to himself, but not in that fashion. Evans had engendered fights between too big for their britches trainees and enraged lowlifes before, but Rialto had the opposite problem. She did not need to be brought down any more than she already had been, she needed to find and understand aggression within herself. “I don’t know,” Evans shrugged. “You have any ideas?”

The hair on Gillicker’s chest moved, long strands twirling around his nipples like trees in a storm. That was hardly a response though.

“Yeah, she’s a tough one,” Evans sighed. He had one idea, he supposed it might just be time to enact it, though he hated to do so. The thought of it made his head swim with nervousness. “I guess I could let her drive for a while. We’ll get in a chase eventually, and if she can handle that, then maybe it’ll give her some confidence to build on. It also might fuck up my quarter billion-dollar car.” He bit his lip, thinking it over, before finally deciding. He nodded to himself as if to solidify the conclusion. “Good talk,” he said to Gillicker before walking out.

Bocker ran his finger around the neck of his too tight dress shirt, while Ketchum stared straight ahead at his inquisitors, revealing nothing that would aid their impromptu investigation. The room occupied by the three men was dim, gray, and military, filled by three county commissioners, two captains, and a major, who all lorded over them in raised seats and podiums, administrating leading and accusatory questions; a facsimile of an internal affairs interrogation, albeit without the benefit of even a Garrity Warning. “And what did you do when you landed, Corporal Bocker?” one of the captains began.

  “We initiated entry procedures, flashbanged the residence, made our way inside as an element, encountered the animal, and retreated when our long guns had no apparent effect.”

  “I see,” the captain replied. “So it is possible that residents of this structure were killed while you were outside?”

  “No sir,” answered Bocker.”

  Good, Ketchum thought. He wasn’t falling for easy bait.

  “We observed the deceased female while we were inside the residence,” said Bocker. “We did not observe the deceased males, adult or juvenile, while inside, however forensics informed us that they appeared to have been killed before we entered.”

  The captain, visibly shaken in his effort to trap the corporal, hesitated. “Corporal Bocker, you are aware that your mission is to protect life and property, correct?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “And,” the captain continued. “Would you agree that neither of those things were protected on the night of the aforementioned incident?”

  “Sir, I don’t believe that’s fair.”

  “Oh,” the captain snorted. “What isn’t fair about it?”

  “Sir, we arrived after the fact, after the damage had been done. We were reacting, not acting. We still managed to stop the threat with no casualties on our end. Under the circumstances I feel that we did as best as could be expected.”

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  “Oh, do you?”

  “Captain,” said Ketchum flatly.

  “You wish to add something, Lieutenant?”

  “With respect, sir,” said Ketchum, “where is this leading? We’ve been cleared by DPS, only the members of ACSD are being investigated here today, we’ve not been advised of any formal proceedings, and if we are facing some sort of charges or internal investigation I refuse to speak without consulting my PBA rep.”

  They were at an impasse. No one on this board could continue without deciding that the three did indeed face some sort of allegations, even if it consisted of a policy violation. But they had nothing on them and everyone here knew it. Which meant that wherever the brass wanted these questions to go, they weren’t getting there today.

  “We just want to keep tabs on our own people,” said one of the civilian board members. “Think of it as ‘quality control.’ We hold our members of TARP to a higher standard. That’s a compliment really, Lieutenant.”

  A higher standard than what? It was a clear attempt at damage control. They wanted to reign Ketchum in before he said or did something that could backfire on them. He had them bogged down, for the time being. “So am I to understand this is some sort of commendation?” Ketchum questioned, pushing it.

  “It’s an acknowledgment. You men are free to go, for now, but be aware, everything you do is scrutinized, and we expect only the best from your team.”

  No, Ketchum thought. You expect your definition of the best. Not a tactical commander’s. Ketchum narrowed his eyes marginally behind his glasses. The intent was obvious. But he wasn’t playing into it. He stood. “Gentlemen, let’s go. Good day,” he said, offering a slight Japanese style bow as he stepped out. He could just as easily have been cursing them based on his tone. The three walked out past the reception area of the justice center into the blinding light and warm, dry air of a fast-approaching summer. Ketchum stopped. “That was good in there, both of you,” he said.

“What do you think they’ll do?” Bocker asked.

  “Most likely nothing,” replied Ketchum. “They need us, and they know it. They want all these things killed in two weeks, less than that, now, and we’re the only team with a shot in hell of managing that. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of these yahoos at headquarters; you just keep doing your jobs.”

  The two younger men nodded and walked off to their cars, as Ketchum slowly made his way to his own. Part of him wanted to believe everything he had just said. It could be true, of course. The more important thing was keeping team morale and integrity high. Alvarez’ return was enough of a shakeup as it was, he didn’t need them worrying about being shut down. He had to handle the commissioners and the brass himself, but the idea of it scared him. Ketchum sighed and unlocked his car. It was time for more training.

  Evans locked his M4 into the gun rack and started off, accelerating up to highway speeds without so much as a glance at Rialto. It was wrong of him to throw her to the wolves like he had. He couldn’t very well expect a rookie to take on a hardened criminal like it was nothing. It was wrong, but he didn’t care. He had caused her to reveal her own character, and her constitution did not look like that of a cop. Maybe she could learn to fight, to be confident, but it was going to take baby steps to find out. That was fine by Evans, he had to power to dictate whether she kept her job or not, and though he intended to make work hard for it and hate her life, he would still give her a fair shot.

  After several minutes, he spoke. “Why do you want to be a cop?”

  “Sir?”

  “Did I stutter?” he replied, without any change in tone. “What made you want to be police?”

  “Well,” she paused. “My dad was an officer in Beaumont for twenty fi-”

  “So you figured you could just do it as well? Being a cop is the family business? This isn’t a mom-and-pop store in case you didn’t realize.”

  “Well,” she repeated, “growing up around it I just always wanted to do the job.”

  “Not an answer.” He shook his head. She was visibly scared, fighting desperately for an answer to a question she had probably never really, truly considered. It was easy to be attracted to this career, it was another thing entirely to want to do it. Baby steps. That’s what it was going to take. “Forget it,” he told her. “We’ll pick it up later, when your brain is working or you’ve figured your shit out. Let’s stop some cars, get some dope, see what happens today.” He turned onto a desolate stretch of barely paved road he knew local dealers to take, and turned on his radar. It was too early to be pissed off, so he didn’t want to continue grilling her right now, but it had been fun to engage in the sadism he now admitted to himself. He supposed everyone had their own vices, now he had his.

  They passed a car going seventy, a full twenty-five miles over the speed limit, and Evans turned on a dime and hit his lights. “You take this one,” he ordered as they rolled to a stop. “Signal if you need me.” Evans’ stare bore down on Rialto as she walked carefully up to a dark colored Altima and pressed her fingers against the tailight, ensuring fingerprints for evidence if worse came to worse. Evans’ mind was drifting even as he watched.

  He had told Losa to make a stop by himself on one of these lonely roads, on a lonelier night, those five years ago. It had been textbook at first, but quickly became very weird indeed. Losa had seen it first: the dark lupine form shooting over the moonlit landscape, barren enough to pass for the moon, and remind a man how alone he was. Evans had gone for his AR immediately.

  It wasn’t the thing’s seeming imperviousness to bullets, or the scratches in his Charger that had unnerved him, it was when it kept up with them, doing a full seventy miles an hour, that he knew terror, fear like he had not known since he was a rookie. And sometimes, on quiet nights or alone in his bed, that terror, the knowledge that it could still be out there, haunted him, setting into his bones and biting down, refusing to leave. TARP was tasked to kill several of the hell hounds, Alvarez had returned to take them out, at least that was the rumor and scuttlebutt making the rounds in the local law enforcement community.

  He hoped to high Heaven it wasn’t true. Just one was bad enough, he had only survived through a series of miracles. Two? Three? A dozen? He refused to even consider the possibility. He almost felt sorry for Rialto, she had no idea what a bloody history one night had written for this county, and even less idea of how hard it would fight to pretend it could never happen again. But, of course, if the rumors were true, it could, and neither his denial, nor Rialto’s ignorance, could stem the train of violence bearing down on the county.

  Rialto walked backward cautiously and reentered the Hypersport. “So,” said Evans, “are you going to write him?”

    “Yes,” she answered. The response was definite and full of confidence, but Evans wanted to ensure it was for genuine reasons.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “He doesn’t have insurance, and we have radar confirmation for court.”

  “OK,” he replied. The gears were clearly rolling in her head. She was learning to articulate. He would get her where she needed to be. She could become a passable cop. She walked back to the car, replacing her fingerprints on the tailight, and dealing with whatever emotions the driver was experiencing at the discovery of the citations. She turned and walked straight back to the car, without walking backwards first. That could stand some improvement, but he would take care of it. She was getting the procedure down, but how she would respond when faced with another fight was still an unknown. Still, he would have that solved soon enough.

51 El Gordo Street was a whitish one-story house, on a lane full of whitish one-story houses. It was still lit when the SRT sniper lifted the hatch of the team’s M113 armored vehicle and notified the rest of the men within that the house was lit, negating the need for their night vision devices. The vehicle’s ramp dropped, and the entry team filed out in a stack, rifles covering every direction as they made a methodical and whisper quiet approach.

According to intelligence from the narcotics division 51 El Gordo was a drug house, possibly responsible for a recent uptick in methamphetamine sales in the area.

Inside, unbeknownst to the team, Gary Downing was playing with his four-year-old son to the backdrop of the TV, while his wife took a shower. Neither parent was a user, dealer, or any kind of associate where illegal drugs were concerned, unfortunately the position of their residence placed them at an inopportune locale. The lives of fifteen people, twelve on the team and the family of three, were about to violently converge in a way none would ever forget.

The entry was swift, as several things happened at once. First, the breacher yelled “sheriff! Search warrant!” and smashed through the door with a sledgehammer. Then the second man in the stack tossed a flashbang grenade, bright as the sun and loud as a gunshot. It exploded in the faces of father and son, and the next thing Downing knew was the sensation of his hands being wrenched behind his back as he was pounded into the floor. Plastic zip cuffs were tightened around his wrists, as voices screamed at him not to move. It was a powerful display of shock and awe designed to prevent any attempts at fighting. However, it was directed at the wrong audience.

One man stayed back with the detainees while the rest of the team cleared the house. Ashley Downing was yanked from the bathroom and moved back with the others. The whole process took around fifteen minutes. And in the next twenty minutes after that not a shred of paraphernalia, money, weapons, or any of the accouterments of drug trade were found in the home. “L-T, we haven’t got anything,” Sergeant Grady reported to Clearborn.

“What the hell?” the commander demanded. A sudden crash interrupted his consternation. The team looked across the street as the lights went out at 52 El Gordo, a dog began barking, and a car sped out of the driveway and flew around the corner. “Shit,” said Clearborn.