11

Fisher began his day with a phone call. Though it was early his friend Danny Simmons kept hours just as odd as he himself did these days. Fisher gulped coffee in a vain attempt to energize himself as he waited for the detective to answer.

“Lieutenant Simmons, Marshals Task Force.”

“Danny,” said Fisher, with more enthusiasm than anyone but his kids normally witnessed, “how’re they treating you?”

“I can’t complain,” said Simmons. “They gave me a brand new Tahoe.”

“Well at least I have one of those,” said Fisher.

“Are you still with TARP?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“I’m not at the moment.”

“You should come back here then. Get back on SWAT and I’ll put in a good word for you when my position comes up.”

“In what, five or ten years?” Fisher laughed. “You’re not going anywhere and you know it.”

“All right you got me.”

“It’s OK,” said Fisher. “I don’t blame you.”

Danny Simmons had come up with Fisher in the Grayson County Sheriff’s Office. With three year’s seniority on Fisher he had shown the soldier the ropes of both patrol and investigations before their careers parted ways, with Fisher working in narcotics and special weapons, and Simmons taking the coveted position of a U.S. Marshals Task Force Officer. Now he assisted in federal investigations and manhunts, and Fisher had been well on his way to getting TARP its own position assisting on USMS raids before Alvarez derailed their mission.

“I wish I could come over, but we’ve got a setback here I’m dealing with. That’s why I called.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” said Fisher. “Do you know anything about a federal operation called ‘Consistent Gale?’”

“Now that you mention it some of the Marshals teams have been going on TDY to help out with that.”

“My understanding is that it’s killing some kind of canines,” said Fisher. “Why would they need the Marshals for that?”

“No idea,” said Simmons. “I don’t have access to the files on it.”

“Do you know any of the personnel involved?”

“Afraid not.”

“Hmm,” Fisher frowned to himself. “Well, thanks anyway. What’s going on with the investigation?”

“We’re getting a wiretap on him tomorrow night.”

Fisher felt the disappointment physically and distinctively. A wiretap meant good intelligence on the cartel and their activities. It meant real police work, something Fisher missed already.

“Good luck with it,” he told his friend. “I’m going to go cry now.”

Daniella de La Rosa had been a contentious figure in the politics of both her native Mexico as well as the U.S. A debutante and daughter of Herve de La Rosa, the well-known leader in the Gulf Cartel, Daniella’s exact position, if any, within the criminal hierarchy was the subject of heated debate in both gossip and professional circles.

This had ultimately not mattered to Alvarez, whose tumultuous and short lived relationship with the Tamaulipan queen had been his happiest, even if he knew then and was still sure they were merely infatuated with each other. He could not conceive of her actually loving him, and he likewise questioned if he had ever loved any woman, even his late wife. Nevertheless, his time with Daniella had been the most honest relationship of his life. Her death had cemented a nihilistic despair that always lingered in the depths of his mind. His life was a singular despondent mission now.

It was true that it never would have worked out between them in the long run. He was committed to law enforcement, she was tied to an enemy of him and his country. But despite himself she had been sorely tempting for the month he had known her. And now he didn’t know if he could survive after her death. He gulped his lukewarm beer and felt the pain that churned in his stomach, and the dull ache that tore at his back. He wished he were anywhere but Blackland, he wished he had died with Daniella. It was not as if he tried to live when he jumped into the Rio Grande. But he had lived, and he supposed there was still work to do until he could die.

Perhaps he owed Jenny Ledbetter a death, he thought. It was hardly fair to suffer in the way she did. Throwing himself into his work had not helped him very much in the past, but it was not merely about himself this time. His mission had a new component. He had to kill the girl who started the horror in this place, and he was glad to push himself as hard as necessary to send her into the afterlife courtesy of an eleven-millimeter bullet.

The shot rang out over the rancher’s field, carried farther by the night wind, despite the silencer. Fortunately, it took only one round to kill the pig. The feral hog dropped like a stone, and Bocker rushed to throw a lasso around the carcass. They towed it out behind the Tahoe. Fisher wasn’t sure how Ketchum would feel if they were seen by a citizen doing this, but according to the lieutenant the county commission had simply ordered that a group of pipehitters be brought in to eliminate the animal threat. In Fisher’s view those vague directives gave him carte blanche to execute the mission however he saw fit, and he had never been averse to bending rules to accomplish something. The carcass would therefore serve as bait, hopefully luring some of the wolves out of hiding. According to Alvarez they had a high metabolism, and so would have trouble weighing the risk to the reward of approaching a dead animal near the road.

The pale sky mellowed over them into a dark and ominous navy, accented with fast moving cirrus clouds as the air cooled. The men sat quietly, watching the dead cow as the minutes dragged by. Alvarez slumped forward in the passenger seat, trying to turn his armor into a back cushion. Jebbins rested his hand on the butt of his rifle. Eventually Bocker got out his phone and stared absently at the screen. “Oh, come on!” Fisher hissed. “We used to go on eighty-five hour patrols, and we kept a lookout the whole time.”

“Well, this isn’t Iraq,” countered Bocker.

“He’s got a point,” said Alvarez. “If we stare out the window the whole time we’ll think everything’s moving.”

“Umm, fine.” Fisher relented. “We’ll take turns. Two guys rest while two keep a lookout. Sixty-minute shifts. Jebbins, you and I’ll go first. No phones, Bocker, I don’t want our night vision ruined.” And with that Fisher pulled a thermal monocular from his plate carrier and scanned the horizon.

It could have been thirty or forty minutes that passed, but Alvarez couldn’t be sure. It felt like a lot longer. He had started to doze when his chin hit the receiver of his rifle, propped against his chest rig. He jolted awake, no doubt dodging another psychological visit from the gruesome pack of beasts they were after. Fisher was still staring out the window, Jebbins had his arm propped on the sill and his head propped on his arm. Alvarez sighed and rubbed his eyes. He had killed more than one werewolf by playing the waiting game, but it was never exciting. The silence was welcome as far as he was concerned, but eventually Jebbins broke it, offering his unsolicited opinion. “Well, this sucks,” he moaned.

“Stop bitching and embrace it.” Fisher recommended. Alvarez stayed quiet, his mind was elsewhere, drifting. His thoughts led him back to Daniella, and the last month of her life, the first time he had been happy in five years, and so far also the last. His visions of her became clearer, her black hair and her brown eyes. Alvarez never thought of black as a color a gem could possess, but her hair and eyes glowed. And all at once he was back with her, back in her tropical mansion, in his own heaven. He reached out to her, and she to him. He felt like he was floating, all the world, all the fear, all the violence that had destroyed him dissolving away in a solvent of affection. He grabbed her by the arms-

Pop!

Alvarez was completely unprepared to see her head explode, her eyes erupting like ping pong balls and her blood flooding his eyes. He groped at the air as her body fell away, and the world slammed down on top of him anew.

Alvarez jerked awake, sweating and jittery. He managed not to scream out in the truck.

“Alvarez, you alright?” Fisher asked.

“Yeah.” I’m pretty far from alright, he thought.

“Good. It’s your turn. Here.” Fisher handed him a clip-on sight for his rifle. Alvarez fixed it in front of his red dot and renewed his concentration on staying awake. He was mad now, that would help. He was mad at himself and mad at the world, because no matter if it was in his mind or reality, he had to face monsters.

They sat there, waiting, for another four hours, before Fisher decided to call it quits. “Let’s try somewhere else. If the next spot’s a dry hole, then screw it,” he ordered. “We’ll try the helicopter again tomorrow night.” This exercise was getting more and more stupid, he thought. Bad enough they were being treated as glorified dog catchers, but now the dogs were outsmarting them on top of it. Fisher slunk down in the seat, undoubtedly as tired as he felt. He hated working nights. Once two o’clock rolled around he lost all desire to do anything, he would never be able to get used to it. Alvarez lit up a cigarette and stared out the window, silently hoping they would never find anything, and that this fool’s errand would end as quietly as it had started. He wanted the wolves dead, of course. He was prepared to kill them, just not tonight. He was not feeling it. When the memories of Daniella came flooding back hard enough they paralyzed his faculties, and when the nightmares came he was useless for the rest of the day. If you weren’t at the top of your game you lost against these animals, plain and simple. He was not up to the task tonight.

Five miles down the road from TARP’s lookout was a lone, off white mobile home. It was dilapidated and overgrown with weeds, and had been abandoned for countless years. If it had ever been occupied, no one currently with the ACSD could remember when. As Evans drove up to it, and the diamond lights illuminated the rotting wood stairs and fungus encrusted siding, he thought it looked even more forlorn than it had the last time he visited it, nearly two months before.

He and Rialto got out of the car, announced their presence, and entered the wide open front door. After quickly checking that no one was squatting in the old wreck, he began his lesson. He and Rialto switched out their Glocks for blue rubber guns, which would accept their flashlights and fit their holsters, but were essentially solid weapon shaped blocks, useful only for training.

Evans then launched into tactics lessons, running Rialto through proper clearing and low light fighting techniques. After his lectures on these subjects, they started at the front door, entered, and cleared the residence. Every mistake brought short, ill tempered rebuttal from Evans, and a start over. After a half dozen such sessions Rialto was sweating, despite the cool night, under her armor. Evans did not seem fazed, and, as Rialto walked into the hallway through a bedroom door with her gun in front of her, she caught her mistake just in time to hear Evans’ terrible words.

“Do it again,” he ordered.

Fisher stretched and sat up in his seat as he drove down the road, going slow, still dragging the hog behind. Fisher didn’t expect the corpse to last long even still, but it didn’t really matter. They weren’t going to use it past tonight. When they approached the old trailer their headlights bounced off the teal reflective graphics of Evans’ vehicle.

“What do we have here?” said Fisher. “Is that one of your new cars?” he asked, looking back at Bocker and Jebbins.

“It sure is,” said Bocker.

“Let’s see what they’ve got,” said Fisher, pulling into the gravel yard. He could see flashlights illuminating rooms with broken windows. He checked the lights, anyway, and found them to be dead as expected. “TARP,” he called, as they walked into the den. Fisher had no wish to be fired on by a panicky rookie or a patrolman working on three hours of sleep.

A deputy looked out of a bedroom at the end of a hall. “Who?” he asked. “Oh.”

“What’s up?” asked Fisher.

“Just some low light evolutions,” said Evans. “Why are you guys out so late?”

“Night exercises,” Fisher said quickly, as he suddenly tried to figure how to leave before Evans noticed that they were dragging a dead animal.

“Who’s the new girl?” asked Bocker, pointing at Rialto, who had walked out and now stood next to Evans.

“Rialto,” she answered.

“Is this slave driver yelling at you nine times a day and making you lick his car clean?” Jebbins chortled. Evans’ reputation was well known, and something of a joke to the younger officers.

“Something like that,” she said, trying to smile and be polite. She had not met any members of the Special Operations Division yet, and there was a mystique about TARP that she now understood. They were intimidating, even when relaxed and joking. Fisher especially, despite his jovial manner, looked as if he could chew iron. He towered over a blond man next to him, who appeared even more intense. She did not realize that he recognized her FTO, but was not interested in saying so. Unfortunately for Alvarez, Evans opened his own mouth as soon as the realization hit him.

“Alvarez?” he said. The man had longer hair now, and had not shaved in several days, but it was definitely him.

“Hi, Evans,” he said flatly.

Evans’ was equally unemotional in his reply. “What are you doing here?”

“Just helping out TARP. I’m like an SME on some stuff.”

Evans wanted to say that the only thing Alvarez could be a Subject Matter Expert in was letting children be killed, but he was too surprised to get it out. So, the rumors were true.

Rialto picked up on the tension that now filled the room, but did not know what to make of it. She’d heard bits and pieces of the story behind Alvarez, behind the massacre, and the dozen officers who had either left or taken their own lives in the messy aftermath. What she knew was mainly rumor and pieces of news articles. The locals did not speak of the event, especially not with outsiders, and she was still considered one, even among the other deputies.

Evans, without any more words, walked brusquely past the men and went outside. He walked down the steps feeling as if he were about to panic. Nausea swept through him, and he bent over in the yard. He unzipped his vest and loosened the straps on the armor beneath, then breathed deeply, hungry for air. His hands shook with rage. He couldn’t believe Alvarez had indeed come back. He also couldn’t think of a reason for him to. Regardless of the reasons, Evans had no interest in talking to the man. He stood up and walked back inside. “Well,” he said, trying to sound casual. “We’re done here. Let’s go Rialto. We need to pull over some cars.”

Rialto nodded and followed him out, as did the rest. If Evans noticed the dead pig he made no indication of it. He climbed back into the car, barely waited for Rialto to take her seat, then spun out of the yard and accelerated like a cannonball. Despite the flat terrain his taillights disappeared in only a couple of minutes.

“That was weird,” said Brantwood.

“He doesn’t like you,” said Fisher, indicating Alvarez. “He just has the option of avoiding you.”

“He’s an asshole though,” said Jebbins.

“Yeah, his trainee must hate life,” said Bocker. “He’s supposed to be a good FTO though, if you stand him long enough. He trained Willshire and look how he turned out.”

“But he tore Willshire apart,” said Jebbins. “Made him get out and run, redo reports like twelve times, I think he left him in the cage once because he forgot something. Evans probably has sex in his uniform.”

“I have no idea how he’s married,” Bocker agreed.

“He’s stupid,” said Alvarez. “That’s why he can be a bully.”

Jebbins laughed. “Is that why he froze up when he saw you? Did you call him stupid when you worked here and hurt his feelings?”

“Evans doesn’t have any feelings except anger,” said Alvarez. “But I called him stupid all the time.”

“Maybe you’re not so bad then,” said Bocker. “He needs to hear it. He thinks he’s God’s gift to law enforcement.”

“He was always like that,” said Alvarez.

Fisher shook his head. “All this fucking drama in your department. We do police work where I come from. At least you held your tongue Alvarez.”

“Shit, I was too surprised to see him to start anything.”

“Well, if we run into him again don’t start anything. I don’t want to be drawn into these pissing contests,” said Fisher.

“Won’t be me starting it,” said Alvarez. “I don’t go for that. I’m dead inside.”

“Not a bad problem to have sometimes,” said Fisher. He rubbed his head. “Let’s go.”