13

The Crown Victoria’s siren alternated between two tones and an air-horn as it weaved along the turns of the various few streets that constituted Blackland. The speed wavered between thirty miles around the curves and sixty on the brief straight roads, and thirty was too fast for most of the curves. It drifted around one neighborhood turn, and bounced along the curb. The four thousand pound vehicle continued undaunted. The radio broke in over the noise every few seconds, though it was difficult to make out most of the transmissions.

One frantic voice, a man with a thick Southern accent, cut through the wild burst of the air-horn as the car blew through an intersection. “Units come around to the west side of the school, the gym entrance.”

The Crown Vic turned left, with the twin protrusions of the push-bar providing the only frame of reference for the movement as the dark green hood rotated with a saucer like motion when viewed from the dash. The school was visible in the distance now. The engine roared and drowned the other sounds as the vehicle touched seventy miles per hour. Waves of red and blue light became visible on the periphery of the car, ten deputies converging at the same time. Three vehicles already sat in the lot, doors open and sirens still moaning. The Crown Vic shuddered and stopped with almost no perception of deceleration. Deputy Miles Johnson ran around the car, stopped in front of the hood, and fired his Glock 17. The next sounds were screams as a barely visible amorphous blur yanked him out of frame. Snippets of movement appeared over the next few seconds, and the sounds of gunfire, sirens, and screaming melded together and became indistinguishable. It lasted all of one minute. The camera occasionally shook, but the carnage was almost entirely out of the lens’ view. Finally the shots ended, followed by the screams, with the pleas and groans drowned out by the sirens that continued automatically, ignorant of their uselessness.

The members of TARP were silent in the dark conference room. Michetti looked around, but said nothing. With the exception of Alvarez and Ketchum, none had seen the footage. Fisher had seen the photographs, which he had intended to bring in, but Ketchum beat him in that regard. The lieutenant had walked in that morning with three banker boxes nearly ripping with folders, blown up printouts, and DVDs with hundreds of hours of evidence of something that was not truly a crime. It was simply a cold, formulaic term for something no one could ever really wrap their minds around. Including himself and his people, Fisher now realized. It was different, sobering, and extremely disturbing to witness how thirteen law enforcement officers had died that night. He looked over at Alvarez. The agent was shifting on his feet, arms crossed, looking down and directing fleeting glances everywhere but the screen. He made no move for the hallway door, however.

Ketchum let the video play for several minutes after the final death, after the wolf breached the gymnasium doors and brought the fight to Alvarez, either for psychological effect or to work through his own memories of the incident. Finally he walked to the front of the room and stopped the player. The silence hit like the impact of a fall from a tower. It persisted among the men and woman for several seconds.

Jebbins finally broke it. “Holy shit.”

There were twelve more dash camera videos of course, but Ketchum saw no reason to play them. Some showed better views of the deaths, but Ketchum had no interest in looking through every video for those ones. This was not a snuff convention, after all. “Ray,” he said, “do you want to add any commentary on this?” It was putting Alvarez on the spot, of course, when he would more than likely did not want to say anything. But he might be able to add something useful, and Ketchum had no issue with him not wanting to speak.

Nevertheless, Alvarez walked up and cleared his throat. “Right, uh, right. Well I think you could definitely see the speed which the animals move at, and from the number of rounds fired, the resistance to small calibers.”

“How many had rifles?” Bocker asked.

“I don’t know,” said Alvarez. “Only a hand full. I think maybe five.”

“There were how many?” asked Brantwood. “Twelve?”

“Thirteen in the parking lot,” Alvarez replied.

That was a disturbing thought, but at the same time the feeling among TARP was roughly the same. Fisher voiced it for all of them. “They were mainly armed with handguns and shotguns, and I’d say maybe thirty percent of those rounds hit at all. This is bad, clearly, but I don’t see how this isn’t a combination of underpowered and undertrained.”

Ketchum looked uncomfortable at that remark. “I knew every one of those guys and they absolutely did their best to-”

“Like I said, I’m not trying to speak ill of the dead L-T,” said Fisher. “But we have to acknowledge shortcomings that lead to these kinds of tragedies. We don’t do any favors for them or us by ignoring mistakes and mistaking it ourselves for respect.”

“I think you have a point,” said Alvarez. “With those weapons they didn’t have a chance. And yeah, most cops won’t hit for shit under stress. That’s beyond our scope of course, outside of of our personal training. But I’d like to order some bigger guns for us. 5.56 isn’t going to cut it.”

Fisher’s head jerked up. “Now I-”

“We’ll talk about it later,” said Ketchum, desperate to avoid another argument.

Michetti looked between the three, as did the rest of the team. The tension was palpable, but none were in the mood to join in or take sides in the fighting this morning.

Ketchum decided it was time to end the issue preemptively. “All right,” he said. “Michetti has some stuff in Denton to show us. I say we go ahead and get out to the vehicles and get down there while traffic is still light. Get out to the trucks and let’s work out the logistics of this trip.”

They rose, knocked the chairs around haphazardly and left, all grumbling as soon as they were out in the hall and believed Michetti to be out of earshot.

“What is that dumb cunt gonna show us?” asked Jebbins. “You think she’s a stripper on the side?”

“I don’t think she has the tits for that,” said Brantwood. “She’s a stick. Probably just wants to bitch at us like Alvarez.”

“What is this? Fucking elementary school?” Jebbins demanded.

Michetti did hear, but tried to ignore it. They could either listen to her or not, if they wanted to take this attitude she did not care. But based on what Alvarez had told her and what she had seen with Task Force Odio the wolves were formidable and dangerous, even to a tactical team. And that video. That would stay with her for a long time. The sounds were almost worse than seeing it.

Columbo Livea was a small time thief and burglar by trade. He had been in and out of jail for various property crimes since he was thirteen. The petty criminal had recently hemmed himself up however. At the age of twenty Livea was sentenced to five years in Huntsville and five years’ probation for aggravated sexual assault of a child after he molested a sixteen year old girl at gunpoint.

Livea’s probation had recently ended, and after his release he had neglected to report his sex offender status, a violation of the community notification act. This led to a summons issued against him, ordering him to appear in court and explain his actions. Livea failed to show up to his hearing, which in turn led to a warrant being issued for his arrest. Evans intended to serve this warrant, and today he was driving to the remote trailer park where Livea lived, Rialto in tow, in order to apprehend the felon. As he pulled into the yard Evans took stock of the surroundings. Dilapidated lawn furniture and empty beer cans littered the dead grass around the front stoop. The siding of Livea’s single wide was puke colored and peeling from the structure. No telling what it smelled like inside. Evans had never known how horrible some smells could be until he started policing. He spoke into his mic, “199.”

“199,” the dispatcher replied.

“Show me at 2144 County Road 16, attempt to serve.”

“10-4.” Evans eyed a jalopy of a Chevy Impala in the driveway. With a warrant that was all the PC he needed to establish that Livea was likely home. “Go around back and watch the door,” he told Rialto. Evans climbed the steps to the front door and drew his baton. He used it to rap loudly on the molded plastic as he called out, “Sheriff! Come on out Columbo!” Ordinarily he would go for a little more stealth, but Livea had to know this was coming. After several seconds of no sound from inside the dwelling Evans prepared to go in, when he suddenly heard the back door slam open. He vaulted off the stoop and ran around the house, only to see Livea bolting into someone else’s yard. Rialto was still standing by the door, staring after Livea. “Call it out!” Evans ordered as he sprinted past her.

“1-199,” she stammered. “Foot pursuit. Hispanic, Hispanic male traveling, uh, southbound. Khaki pants, uh, white, white wifebeater.” Rialto started to run after the men, but Evans was already far ahead.

Livea ducked around a trailer as Evans grabbed hold of some siding and pivoted his way after the felon. As Livea came around the other side of the house he found himself on open ground once more, and began sprinting again. He’d begun the race with both a speed and home field advantage, but this was born mainly from adrenaline and fear, and now Livea was beginning to feel the effects of a diet heavy in beer and light on exercise, and he slowed. Evans, despite the encumbrance of a duty belt and armor, came speeding up behind Livea and tackled him to the ground. Livea may have been losing energy but he was not done yet. He had very little desire to go back to jail, let alone prison. “Stop resisting!” Evans roared as Livea tried to get up. He responded to Evans’ command by reaching blindly over his head and grabbing the officer’s ear. Evans rolled to the side as Livea forced his way up. “Rialto drive stun him!” Evans shouted when she came running up.

But Rialto just stood and stared as the fight escalated. Evans was now trying to put Livea in a headlock, and Livea was trying to bite his arm. “You’re coming with me, Columbo,” grunted Evans as the grappled.

“Fuck you!” Livea hissed. Evans could feel himself tiring, his fatigue threshold approaching fast. Livea got a hand free and began punching Evans in the side of the head. Evans saw stars at the first punch, felt the dull thuds of the second and third, and decided he was starting to get mad. With his left hand he pushed Livea’s head back, digging his fingers into his opponent’s eyes. With his right hand Evans leveled a punch into Livea’s kidney that could have toppled a horse. Livea went limp, and Evans flipped the rapist onto his stomach, cuffing him as his mouth opened and closed like a fish’s, trying to form words. Evans stood and, panting, pulled Livea to his knees, where he regained his breath, and his voice.

“Fuck you you fucking pig!” he screamed. “Fuck you and that bitch! I’ll fuck both of you in the ass! I’ll fucking kill both of you motherfuckers! It’s spray season you fuck ass bitch!”

“Shut up Columbo!” Evans shouted back.

“I’ll fuck both of your asses!” Livea retorted.

“Last time I tell you: shut the fuck up before you piss me off,” Evans demanded.

Livea continued to scream, his threats becoming more heated and bizarre. Evans put a boot to the back of Livea’s head and pushed his face into the dirt. Livea tried to sputter something around a mouth full of turf, but he was cut short as Evans dropped a knee on his spine. Livea squealed as Evans bent down and hissed in his ear. “Columbo, when I let you up you keep that cockholster shut, otherwise I might decide you have too many teeth. Understand?”

“Murf,” Livea replied as he tried to nod. Livea didn’t know Evans, wasn’t familiar with his reputation, but this cop was apparently trying to break his neck and back, and he had no reason to believe Evans wouldn’t deliver on his threats.

“OK,” said Evans as he lifted Livea back to his knees. Rialto looked like she was about to say something, but Evans preemptively shut her up with a raised hand and a death stare. He waited to talk to her until a unit could show up to transport their prisoner.

As soon as Livea’s cuffs were switched out and he was loaded into the transport car Evans turned to Rialto and said simply, “what the fuck?”

“I-I didn’t expect him to come out the back door like that.”

“Well how did you expect him to come out?” Evans snapped. “Did you think he’d ask your permission? I didn’t put you on the back door for fun. And that shitshow in the yard, what was that?” The question was, as far as Evans was concerned, rhetorical, and before she had a chance to answer he followed up. “If you ever, ever, see and officer in a fight, you get in there. Never let someone fight alone, unless you want to fail this program, because if you do, just put on another performance like that next time.” Evans stalked past her and unlocked his car. “Get in,” he ordered.

The drive to the municipal complex was quiet, and tense. Evans executed the warrants himself while Rialto sat in an empty office. After he finished with the magistrate, Evans walked down the hall to retrieve his trainee, and ran into Jeebkate on the way. “Hey, Evans,” the sergeant said, stopping him. “What happened?”

“What happened was she can’t fight. I was rolling around with that POS and she just stood there and watched.”

Jeebkate nodded. “All right,” he sighed. “Where is she?”

“In the sergeants’ office,” said Evans.

“I’ll talk to her,” said Jeebkate. “Oh, and get me her DOR at the end of shift. Recommend whatever you think you need to. We’ll take care of this.”

“OK, sarge.” The view of most cops was simple when it came to fights. If an officer was in a tussle you jumped in. You didn’t tase or mace both parties, you didn’t try to shoot a perp with a deputy on top of him, and you sure as hell did not stand there and stare. One or two minutes felt like a lifetime in a fight, and two cops could mean the difference between a beatdown or worse. Evans had the power to get Rialto kicked out anytime, and if she didn’t realize that, it was simply more evidence that her heart wasn’t in the job.

She was white as a sheet as she followed Jeebkate into the office, apparently she did not appreciate Evans’ sway. Jeebkate would consult him before doing anything with one of his trainees, and Evans would have the final say in any punishment, even if a sergeant or lieutenant did formalize it. There was no other way to do it, really. An FTO would know his trainee better than anyone else, and for the rest of his career Evans could be subpoenaed to testify for, or against Rialto if action was brought against her. It was a serious situation for everyone, whether Rialto realized it or not, but it was hopefully starting to sink in. Regardless, Evans knew even before Rialto left the room what he was going to do.

When the two walked out of the office it was obvious Rialto was trying not to cry. Her makeup was already running. For fuck’s sake, Evans thought. She always wore too much makeup.

“One more chance,” said Evans as he looked down at her. “This is going to happen again. And that will be your second and last chance to keep your job. See you tomorrow,” he said without enthusiasm as he walked out.

The wolf sat perched in a relief of attack behind the glass. Its jaws were drawn back, as if sneering, and the fierce teeth were exposed for the audiences to gape at. The current onlookers took a much dimmer view than most through the museum, however. The members of TARP stood around the display case frowning, mostly standing with arms crossed. Michetti continued speaking nonetheless. “The gray wolf, Canis lupus, is an apex predator within its niche. This is a large specimen, a male, he would probably have been an alpha in life, a pack leader. The wolves we’re dealing with are a bit different. They’re much larger, closer in weight to a deer or even a human male than a wolf or coyote. They’re brown rather than grey, and much more muscular, very prominent shoulder and forelimb muscles. It’s faster and stronger than any extant canine.

“Based on the cadavers I’ve looked at the CNS in particular is very well protected, especially for a mammal of this size.” She traced her hand along the vertebrae, down the spine toward the tail. “The thick bone and additional skeletal muscle make for a reliable armor system, and according to Alvarez and the BORTAC guys who’ve killed them, it can successfully deflect a .308 in some cases. The 2007 animal was hit by multiple buckshot rounds with negligible effects.”

“Or two Mexicans and Evans just can’t hit shit,” said Jebbins, drawing snorts of amusement from Brantwood, Bocker, and Bascomb.

Alvarez noted they did not mention Corval’s own misses. Of course he had been armed with only a handgun, it was more forgivable, not that they would ever insult that poor bastard. They would evidently ignore that he and Evans had both scored ‘expert’ on every firearm qualification before the massacre. But wasn’t there a saying in Texas, “don’t let the facts get in the way of a good story?” He could let them think they had missed. Let their egos deflate when they hit one of the things with two or three Beowulfs and failed to down it. He would enjoy seeing their reactions immensely.

“Just go ahead and pull your dicks out if you’re all so concerned with whose is bigger,” said Michetti, shooting daggers at the team leader.

Fisher cleared his throat. “Alright, knock it off,” he ordered. “Just shut up and listen.”

“The things also clot like motherfuckers,” said Alvarez, trying to get the conversation back on topic, even if they wouldn’t listen to him.

“Right,” Michetti nodded. “We’ve tested the clotting factors, and they don’t bleed heavily, even with direct hits to arteries, and what bleeding does happen is healed quickly by an extremely aggressive platelet and leukocyte response.”

“What’s a leukocyte?” Jebbins whispered to Fisher.

“The only reason you haven’t died from STDs,” Fisher whispered back.

Michetti, who most likely had not heard them, continued. “Shotgun slugs have been noted to have a positive effect, especially against the face, of course shotguns aren’t good at range or from aircraft, so you’ll have to stick to rifles.”

“How much 5.56 does it take to kill one?” asked Fisher.

“Up to a mag, or a mag and a half when it’s really pissed,” said Alvarez. “We’ll be getting something more hard hitting in.”

“We have fifties,” said Fisher.

“Something for the ARs, said Alvarez.

“Hmm,” Fisher nodded, not interested in inquiring about what that would be at the moment. He simply wanted to leave.

“Vision seems to be at or better than human levels. They see in color, and possibly have some infrared sight. They’re also fast. About the speed of a cheetah over short distances. Overall they’re definitely the apex quadruped in North America.”

“They don’t have guns, though,” said Jebbins.

“Or helicopters,” added Michetti. “We can certainly kill them, but it’s going to take a while.”

Fisher did not like the sound of that.

Ketchum spoke up next. “Is there anything else about them we need to know?”

“There’s a lot we need to know and don’t right now,” said Michetti. “But what I’ve gone over is basically the extent of our knowledge. Hopefully you guys can get me more specimens, and more footage of their behavior. There’s really quite a bit of research I’d like to do on them.”

Kecthum nodded. “Well then, if there’s nothing else, let’s get lunch and head back.”

Michetti nodded, and Fisher called on them to move out. Jebbins stopped in front of him and waited for the others to leave the room. “What do you think Alvarez wants for the ARs?”

“I don’t know,” said Fisher. “But keep an eye on this cat. We’ll track anything he does that could get him removed, and keep leaning on Ketchum to do something.”

“You think that’ll work?”

“I doubt it,” said Fisher. “We might just have to suffer through this. Just keep your head down and don’t antagonize that scientist anymore. She’ll get the DOJ on us for harassment.”

“All right Sarge,” Jebbins sighed.