He quickly scanned the area around his position, double-checking where everything was — his two kit bags with his tools and supplies, the monitor, and the coveralls he’d resisted putting on so far because of the heat. And the mirror. He couldn’t forget the mirror.
“Larson, Durrie. Ac—”
The radio cut off.
Durrie waited a moment, then touched his transmit button. “Didn’t copy. Repeat.”
He waited, but Timmons said nothing. For a second, he wondered if something had gone wrong with his communication gear. It seemed likely, given that everything else was screwed up. But when he glanced at the monitor, he could see Larson hovering over his briefcase, looking unsure.
Durrie touched his transmit button again. “Larson, touch the left side of the briefcase if you can hear me.”
On the screen, Larson moved his hand down and touched the case as instructed.
“Son of a bitch,” Durrie said under his breath.
His comm gear was working fine. Something had happened to Mills and Timmons.
He looked at the mirror again. There was a man by the door. Though dressed in dark clothes like the ops team, Durrie was sure this was the first time he’d ever seen him. Where the hell had he come from?
“Larson, find cover,” Durrie said. “Unfriendly coming in the front door.”
“I thought you wanted to show me something,” Owens said, still standing in the barn by the door. “What’s up?”
Larson rose, the briefcase in his hand. “Just…making sure I have everything.”
In the mirror, the man outside had his hand on the door handle.
“Larson! Quit dicking around and take cover.”
One corner of Larson’s mouth turned up in a half smile, but he didn’t move.
Then, in a near flawless single motion, the briefcase flew open, and Larson’s hand darted inside, coming out with a Glock G29 10mm pistol as the case fell away. He fired twice before the briefcase even hit the ground.
While the bullets missed Owens as he dove to his left, they pierced the door, and smacked into the other man just as he started to enter. The one that caught him in the shoulder didn’t matter, but the other went straight through his neck, dropping him to the ground. Even a hundred feet away, Durrie was sure the man would never get up again.
Inside, Larson finally took Durrie’s advice and moved behind the cover of a stack of rusted barrels. Owens, in the meantime, had scrambled into the remnants of an old animal stall.
“Guy at the door is down,” Durrie said into the radio.
“Your friend is dead,” Larson called out.
Owens remained silent.
“Step on out, and keep your hands high.”
For a moment, there was still no response, then Owens said, “You brought me here to kill me. Did you really expect me just to let that happen?”
“Hey, I’m just doing a job here. Don’t blame the messenger.”
“Are you kidding me?” Owens said. “Your job is to kill me. Like hell I won’t blame you!”
“If you’ve got a weapon, toss it in my direction now,” Larson ordered. “Then step out where I can see you.”
“No way. I’ll take my chances. You against me.”
“You really think I’m here alone?” Larson asked.
“No. But my friend took care of your backup.”
“Really? How many did he get? One? Two? You don’t really know, do you? Because he didn’t get a chance to tell you. How do you think I know one of my bullets killed him? I still have people out there.”
In response to this, two clicks came over the radio, and both Durrie and Larson knew the two other men who’d been stationed by the road were on their way back. Unfortunately, Durrie also knew it would take them at least two minutes to get to the barn — an eternity in situations like this.
“Even if I believed you, it wouldn’t matter,” Owens said. “I’m not going to just let you kill me.”
“You’re making a fool of yourself,” Larson said. “Take it with some dignity.”
Just go get him, Durrie thought but didn’t say over the radio. It was doubtful Owens was armed. He would have played it safe, just in case the others had planned on patting him down when he first arrived. His buddy was probably carrying two weapons, one of which he was undoubtedly supposed to have given to Owens when they reconnected.
But Larson was playing with him, almost like he was teasing his prey.
The angle of the camera in the barn was such that Owens was mostly hidden from view in the stall. Durrie could only see the top of the guy’s head and one of his shoulders. He could tell he was moving around, but couldn’t see what he was doing.
“Enough, Owens,” Larson yelled, but while he was giving the impression his patience was starting to run out, his body language was calm and controlled. “Enough screwing around. Get rid of your weapons and step out now.”
“Go to hell!”
Owens shuffled back a couple of feet from the stall divider, instantly giving Durrie a better view. The guy was looking at something in his lap. No, not his lap, his hand.
Durrie pressed the transmit button. “He’s calling someone!”
As Owens lifted a mobile phone to his ear, Larson sprinted out from behind the barrels. Durrie could see Owens start to talk, but he couldn’t hear what the man was saying. Whatever it was, he didn’t get much out before Larson came around the end of the stall and fired twice.
Owens fell backwards, his phone clattering to the ground beside him. Larson checked his pulse, but Durrie had yet to see anyone survive a shot through the forehead. Satisfied the target was dead, Larson picked up the discarded phone and looked at the display.
A second later, his head snapped to the side, his eyes looking directly into the lens of Durrie’s camera. “He called 911.”
2
Jake Oliver waited in the passenger seat of the patrol car while his partner, Tony Haywood, went into Di’s Diner.
It was part of their routine — get the brief at the station, drive around for a few hours, then stop at the diner. The main reason wasn’t Di’s mediocre coffee or a sudden need to use their restrooms. It was Maria, one of the waitresses who worked the swing shift.
More and more Jake had taken to staying outside while his partner went in, sure Haywood liked it better that way. Jake’s training officer had made it clear that they were not friends now nor would they ever be.
Jake could see the veteran cop leaning against the counter, two to-go cups of coffee in front of him, and Maria on the other side, smiling.
Suddenly a dispatcher’s voice broke over the radio. “All units in vicinity of Goodman Ranch Road and Tyler Way, report of shots fired with possible injuries.”
Jake brought up a mental map of the city in his mind. He’d only been in Phoenix for a little over nine months, but he’d made it a priority to know it as well as he could. That included memorizing as much of the layout as possible. In just seconds, he narrowed in on the location. It was in a nearly deserted part of town, about three and a half miles away from their current location.
He was just about to hop out and get Haywood when he saw his partner exit the diner with the two cups in his hand, undoubtedly hearing the call on his radio. He handed the cups to Jake through the open window, climbed in, then grabbed the radio mic. “9-82 Adam, in route Goodman Ranch Road.”
“Copy, 9-82 Adam,” the dispatcher said.
The moment they hit the street, Haywood flipped on the emergency lights and the siren.
“Coffee,” he said, holding out his hand.
Jake gave him the cup with the X on the top. That was the one topped off with cream and sugar. Jake liked his black.
Haywood took a sip, then smiled. “When we get there, slow and cautious. Understand?”