2

The sun rose in a clear sky over the damp ground. The rain and clouds were gone, but Evans did not feel any cheerfulness as he watched the sunrise. He tapped his holster absently as Rialto loaded the car and checked the equipment. As she started to get into the passenger seat, he stopped her. “I want you to drive today,” he said in a tone of resignation.

“Oh, OK, sir,” she managed to say. She left the parking lot at a painfully slow pace, and despite the power of the engine, she managed to crawl down the road as if the Lykan were a school bus.

Evans considered whether to say anything just yet, but decided to wait and see if she just needed to get the hang of reigning the machine in. He could tell, glancing at her from behind his sunglasses, that she was enjoying herself. It seemed that his idea was working. She was gaining confidence, and he wondered why it took so long for him to realize he needed to throw her a bone. He supposed he had simply started enjoying her torture too much, and forgotten he actually needed to train her, to have a point behind whatever discomfort she was subjected to.

A pickup was ahead of them on the road. As Rialto gained on it Evans ordered her to check the radar and moving lidar.

“Seventy-five,” she advised.

“What’s the speed limit here?”

“Fifty-five, sir,”

“That’s right, light it up,” he ordered.

Rialto caught up with the truck and did just that, while Evans ran the license plate in the computer. After around a mile the truck showed no indication it was going to stop, and Evans took the radio mic. “199, show us southbound on forty-two, blue GMC Sierra refusing to stop. Supervisor copy. Speed’s approximately eighty, no traffic.”

“10-4,” the dispatcher responded. “Any additional units advise.”

Several other cars keyed up and requested to be shown responding as Evans gave Rialto more orders. “All right,” he said. “Just keep them in sight, no problem for this car, don’t do anything extreme, just focus on driving, I’ve got everything else.”

She nodded, her eyes wide and hands tight on the wheel. She was barely giving the car any gas, but, as Evans predicted, keeping pace was no issue. There was no reason to stay neck and neck in a pursuit like this, only to keep the offending vehicle in sight until they wrecked, bailed, or a good position for a PIT maneuver or air support was secured. “Continuing southbound on forty-two. Speed’s...,” he glanced over at the instrument cluster, “approximately ninety, no traffic.”

“10-4.”

Though he would never admit out loud, Rialto’s driving had him worried. For all he knew she had never even gone this fast before. The copious amount of Red Bull he had already drunk was not helping his nerves either. The truck was attempting to pull away, still accelerating, and Evans took pleasure in knowing there wasn’t a chance in hell that they would escape that way. All the same if the chase kept going he would request a supervisor and air support from TARP.

As they crested a hill they came up on a field to their left, which was dotted with trees. The truck began to slow, and Evans gave more orders, his voice tense but still calm. “They’re about to bail,” he said. “Get ready.”

The suspects either realized their was no chance of outrunning them, or they intended to shoot their way out. Either way, he and Rialto were about to be in the middle of a situation with backup a long way off. The truck veered onto the shoulder, and two men jumped out before it had fully stopped.

Even though she was slowing down Rialto had to stand on the brake to come to a halt herself. Evans jumped out after the suspects while Rialto struggled momentarily with her seatbelt before running after him. Evans was sprinting across the field now, head cocked to his left as he talked into the radio. “199, subjects bailed off of forty two. Two Hispanic males, navy shirt and blue jeans; black T-shirt and black pants.”

He caught up with the driver, who glanced back but continued running. Evans ignored any of his weapons for the moment. Instead he simply reached forward and pushed the man between the shoulder blades. This slight change to his center of gravity knocked him headfirst into the dirt and grass, and Evans was right behind him as he tumbled. There was barely any scuffle as Evans snatched his left hand and slapped a handcuff across it. After securing the man’s other arm Evans rolled him over and sat him up. Unfortunately there was no way he could run after Rialto now.

He walked along, with the driver in tow, trying to raise Rialto on the radio. As he scanned the horizon he suddenly saw her in the distance, struggling with the second man. Evans jogged after her, practically dragging his man, and as he closed in on her he saw that she had gotten both the man’s hands into cuffs. “199,” she said breathlessly into the radio, “suspects in custody.”

Evans had to smile at that. He also had to be proud. She had done something he never expected. When the backup units arrived Evans had the suspects transported while he drove himself and Rialto back to headquarters. “I don’t know where all that was before,” he told her, “but keep it up.”

Rialto felt quite proud of herself in that moment, and for the first time since graduating the academy she felt that she did indeed have what it took. When they got back to the justice center Rialto took out her cell phone as soon as she could, and texted her father to tell him about her day so far.

After finishing with the magistrate, locking the suspects up, and tending to the impounds, Evans and Rialto were both eager to get into more action. They shot down the highway, scanning for any slip up they could possibly use as probable cause. The radio came to life, and Rialto heard their unit mentioned.

“107, raise 199 and have him switch to patrol.”

“199.”

Evans answered. “199, I copy.” The patrol channel was reserved for traffic between individual units. Evans hoped whatever Peterson, Unit 107, had for him was important. “Peterson, you on?”

“Hey, Evans, 10-25 with me at the Lorden farm.”

“10-4,” responded Evans, slightly annoyed. He did not appreciate having his time wasted, and this already looked like a gigantic waste of his day.

The Lordens had once owned several hundred acres of farmland off Highway 185, but at some point, probably when the economy went south, the farm had folded, and the family had moved, possibly to Denton or the DFW metroplex. Wherever they now were the farm remained, unclaimed and in disrepair, with a large house and barn crumbling, as well as several outbuildings and disused implements lying around. All of this made it a favored hangout for local deputies, who would hide behind the buildings at night, either to catch speeders or peruse their phones in privacy.

Evans was now parked in the old gravel driveway, surrounded by prairie that had once birthed the wheat the Lordens depended on. He waited, impatiently tapping his windowsill, for a good fifteen minutes before Peterson’s Charger pulled up. Evans and the lanky, fair headed deputy dismounted their vehicles and stared each other down for a second, the closest thing they had to pleasantries. Rialto elected to stay in the Lykan, cowed by two salty officers in the vicinity. “So,” said Evans, extending his arms in incredulity, “what?”

“I heard Alvarez was back,” said Peterson.

“Yeah, he’s back. Who cares?”

“I heard he was with TARP,” Peterson continued. “I also heard TARP was assigned to kill a bunch of those dogs after that family got eaten.”

“Who knows?” Evans, now clearly past simple annoyance, said in dismissal. “TARP’s Ketchum’s baby, and it’s just an excuse for that Grayson County guy, Fisher, to run around pretending he’s still in the Army. I don’t have any use for those roided out freaks.”

“Well, I was thinking it seems like something weird’s going on this year surrounding the whole massacre,” said Peterson. “I expected you’d either know something or at least care.”

“Well I don’t,” said Evans. “This whole town’s always been weird about it. They fetishize it. They need to learn to let the dead rest.”

“Sometimes I think you wish you were one of those dead, the way you complain about even mentioning them, like you’d rather be in the ground than speak about it at all.”

“Maybe I do feel that way,” said Evans, glancing at the ground. His response was sewn with bitter anger, and more than a little hurt. “They’ll have their little ceremony next week, and their stupid reporters, and then they’ll forget about it for another year and everything will be back to normal around here.”

“But you won’t forget. You just won’t talk about it.”

“No I won’t forget. How could I? But I won’t dwell on it,” said Evans. “I don’t live in the past, and neither should you. You weren’t even here when it happened, so it doesn’t affect you.”

“Fair enough,” said Peterson. “But I’m telling you, there’s something different going on this year.”

“Maybe so,” said Evans, “but to hell with it.”

“Suit yourself,” said Peterson, as he leaned into Evans’ car to speak to Rialto. “Don’t worry about him; he’s way more bark than bite these days.” Peterson laughed as he reentered his own vehicle. Evans slammed his door and took off, leaving a rooster tail of gravel behind.

“Corporal…” she hesitated. Rialto was always afraid to ask questions of Evans, who was of the opinion that there certainly were such things as stupid questions, and was quick to point out any he viewed as such, with all the rancor he approached any other task with. Still, curiosity can be a force nearly as powerful as a drug, and today, as on some choice prior occasions, it got the better of her fear.

“What is the deal with TARP, and with… Fisher, wasn’t it?”

“Did you see that tall guy at Larston’s scene who looked like Jesus?” he asked.

“The angry looking one in civvies?”

“Um hum.” Evans nodded. He was unconsciously pushing the car far beyond the speed limit. Simply thinking about Fisher made him angry. He had never pinned down why, but he suspected that it was due to the reminders of the massacre that TARP brought with it. Besides, he knew Fisher’s type, although he had never actually met the man. Evans was nevertheless certain that Fisher saw himself above simple cops, and utilized patrol only for transporting his own suspects, or completing reports on things he had actually witnessed. Evans had no patience for such officers, who invariably made terrible ground level patrolmen. But Fisher had a helicopter to ferry him around, didn’t he? That negated any “ground level” policing. He half-snorted in a combination of amusement and annoyance. “That was Sergeant Fisher, from Grayson County. He’s the head of TARP. Well, actually, I guess Lieutenant Ketchum is the head of it, but Fisher is their main supervisor. He was Special Forces, and probably thinks he still is. Bocker and Jebbins from here are on the team. I never really met them, they’ve only been on a couple of years, but Fisher’s leading them around like puppies thinking they’re all some kind of elite soldiers. TARP doesn’t really do anything, so they’re the perfect place for Alvarez. As I understand it the idea was to give the SRT aerial support in case something serious happens, but like I say they really don’t do anything.”

“And Alvarez? What’s his story? I’ve heard about him but not a lot. Everyone says something different.”

Evans was starting to get annoyed at the questions now. He was not about to go into the details of that one, especially with a first phase trainee. But he didn’t really feel like laying into her over some simple questioning, and she needed to hear some truth from someone, didn’t she? He ran his hand across his head. “Alvarez was the SRO for the high school five years ago,” he said simply. “He left here after that all happened. He left because he fucked up, all those kids died, and he failed at his job. But he stayed in law enforcement I guess. Supposedly is a Fed now, making more than either of us will in twenty years, coming back here for fuck knows what on federal money. World’s full of justice, isn’t it? I don’t know why he’s back, I don’t know what he’s doing with TARP, but this fucking anniversary needs to come and go so he can leave, at least I hope he’s leaving after it’s over. People around here need to drop it.” The last statement was nearly shouted, as Evans’ voice had steadily risen during his diatribe, with him wavering and trying to hold onto a breaking larynx at the end. He said nothing more, and neither did Rialto, who was still confused, but saw that broaching the subjects anew would not be healthy. She sat quietly, as she could think of no good reply to Evans, nor any subject that would not set him off.

“We’re going to make another stop,” said Evans. “There’s someone else I need to see.”

The TARP crew sat in the conference room at the Airbase, where Fisher stood before them glumly, drinking coffee to wake up. “So,” he said. “Last night was obviously a clusterfuck. These things are smarter than we thought. Now, of course the weather didn’t help, but we blew it.”

They bristled at the remark; still, every one of them accepted it as truth, which was why it hurt.

Bocker shrugged. “So, what’s the plan from here on then?”

“The plan is I don’t have a good plan,” said Fisher. “Now we estimate at least fifty surviving animals based off the satellites. We’re averaging three a day when we’re good. You can do the math. We’ll need as beefed up of a response for the ceremony as we can manage.” He noticed Alvarez nodding. “You agree, Alvarez?”

“Yeah,” said the agent. “I’m thinking everyone on scene should have a long gun with extra mags. SRT plus us on overwatch, and the other counties’ teams. I’d recommend we ask DPS to stand their guys up too. We can try the Rangers and Parks and Wildlife, it’s short notice so I don’t know if they’d come up, but it’s worth a try.”

Fisher was nodding now. “Let’s get that in a memo to Ketchum, so he can push it up. What about your guys?”

“I’m calling the Dallas office as soon as we’re done here.”

“OK,” said Fisher. “Let’s go ahead and get on it. I don’t see that there’s anything more to say about last night. It was a fuckup, we’ve had enough of those. Let’s just move ahead.”

The rest of the team took the cue and stood.

“As soon as we get these memos done let’s get to the range,” Fisher said. “I want us to have as much trigger time as we can for the next twenty-four hours.”

“Fuckin’ A Sarge,” said Jebbins. “Hey, do we have enough .458?”

“Yeah,” said Alvarez. “I think we’ll have enough. I hope so, anyway.”

“Bocker, you load up on as many kinds of shells as you can,” Fisher ordered. “If these things get indoors we’ll have another Grozny on our hands.” He referred to the disastrous and protracted battle between Russian forces and Chechen rebels in 1995, one of the worst urban battles in recent history, wherein the Chechens used the sewers and destroyed buildings to their advantage. “So you wear so many shells you look like a gay pride flag if you have to.”

“Roger that, Boss.”

“This doesn’t exactly feel like law enforcement, does it?” said Fisher, who had not seen it as police related from the beginning, though he now recognized the necessity of their involvement.

“This isn’t law enforcement,” Alvarez said. “It’s low intensity warfare.”

Rialto was surprised to see Evans pull up to the school. She was more surprised when he brought her in with him. She wasn’t sure whether to be unnerved or happy that he was including her.

Evans headed straight for the SRO office and found Losa. “Do you have a minute?” he asked.

“Sure.”

They stepped outside, as Evans had, for once, thought to consider who might hear his language and complain on him. “So,” he said. “I heard Alvarez is back, heard it from several people. Do you know anything about it?”

“Well yeah,” said Losa. “I saw him a couple of times since he’s been here. He’s working with TARP.”

“Yeah, I heard that. What do you think about all this stuff?”

“Well…” Losa needed to tread lightly here. Evans might not take kindly to his own thoughts on the issue. “We need Alvarez for this, I think.”

“Oh, come on-“

“Hey, he knows what he’s doing, at least. I know you don’t like him, I talked to him about that, but you have to realize, we’re looking at something bad happening here.”

“You can’t actually believe that,” said Evans.

“Why not? Things are damn weird around here lately. I heard people are seeing stuff here at the school-”

“So what?” Evans demanded, nearly snapping. “We always see stuff.”

“Well, it’s like it’s getting more intense.”

“It’s just people getting worked up over the anniversary,” said Evans. “That’s all it is.”

“Alvarez doesn’t think so, and I’m inclined to agree with him.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, suit yourself,” said Losa. “But make no mistake. If Alvarez is right, we’re fucked.”