"Alpha Lead," called Volont on the radio, "report up here ASAP." He was calling the TAC team commander. Volont beamed at Hester. "I like that idea."
By the time the TAC team commander arrived, we had something of a plan. The little group in the stranded stretch van was really dangling out there. No place to hide. No place to run. In a clear fire zone, especially with the boat now away from the dock. There was absolutely nothing to prevent us from taking them apart, if necessary. All we had to do was come up with a plan to convince them that we were about to do it if they resisted in any way, and then simply arrest them. Piece of cake.
The team commander agreed that they could be taken out without a problem. Arresting he wasn't so sure about.
It became a matter of approach. If, as we hoped, Gabriel was in the van, we'd have to be careful not to make any mistakes at all. One false step, and he'd grab any possible advantage.
The team commander, who was aware of Gabriel's background and the likely anti-Fed mentality of his group, suggested that we have either a local or a county officer go with him to approach the stretch van.
No names, but I looked around the office. I was the only one who fit that bill.
We came up with our plan. "You sure you're comfortable with this?" What could I say? No? Of course I wasn't comfortable about it. I didn't want to do it. One of those lovely little moments, when you agree with everything that was going to be done, but had a little reservation about who was going to get stuck with it.
"Just remember, we aren't going over there to arrest anybody. Just to give them something to think about."
"Like shooting the pale deputy?"
He laughed. "You'll be fine."
I hoped he was right.
The view of the stretch van from street level was a bit different. We were much closer, for one thing, and the fog wasn't much of a factor. You could see at least one head inside. The driver. The rest were fairly well obscured by shadow. I mean, it looked kind of lumpy in there, but you couldn't make out individuals. It was hard to believe there were seven of them in there.
The stretch van was down by the bow, as they say, with both front tires flattened, and the right rear as well. Although I knew it wasn't intentional, leaving that one tire up was a good thing. The occupants had to be just a little more uncomfortable, with a list like that. If we'd been able to shoot out all four tires, they'd have been on an even keel. Kind of reminded me of the old-fashioned interrogation chairs, with the front legs an inch shorter than the rear. The sensation of being about to slide out of the chair apparently made the interviewee most uncomfortable.
The engine was running, presumably for the heater. Even with the flat tires, I had to remind myself that they could move if they needed to. Just not too far or too fast.
We stopped just across the street from the stretch van, near the front of the fire truck. As planned, we climbed up into the cab, and scrutinized the radio and siren boxes, until we were sure we could turn on the truck's PA system. I was always a little nervous with an unfamiliar siren box. You had to turn the rotary switch to "PA" and then activate the siren switch. With this one, and we'd been warned, you also had to switch the mike box over from "radio" to "PA," or you'd just set off the siren. We were extra careful, because we didn't want to startle the occupants of the stretch van into something regrettable. Like shooting us, for instance.
Click. Click. So far, so good. Key the mike. Well, you can't win them all. We both had our heads down, and pulling the mike to my mouth only got it about three inches from the radio. Feedback. The resulting squeal sounded like fingernails on a blackboard, magnified about a thousand times. It only lasted about half a second, but it scared the hell out of me. I released the "talk" button, and slid back across the passenger's seat, so that my feet were on the paving, and just my elbows were in the truck.
"Wanna try that again?"
"Shit," I said. "Yeah. Should have thought of that." I cleared my throat, and stood on the running board with the mike in my hand. I keyed it again, and there was just a hiss from the speaker on the roof of the truck. So far, so good.
Following that squeal wasn't easy, so I figured I'd better keep it simple and straightforward.
"Two of us are coming over to talk to you. Don't shoot. Understand?" There was no reaction. I put the mike down. "That okay?"
"Don't do much public address work, do you?" said Adams, with a grin. "It'll do. Let's go."
We both stood in full view of the stretch van, took off our coats, and turned slowly. No obvious guns. We'd decided earlier that losing the coats would have to be enough. Cold made your voice shake, and that wasn't what we wanted, so we weren't about to take off our shirts. Just let them know that, if we were armed, they could probably get off the first hundred rounds while we fumbled for our guns.
Butterflies wouldn't do my feelings justice, as we walked across that street. I can't remember being so tense in my life. Not only were we in a perfect position to be gunned down in our tracks, but I was going to have to act self-possessed. And I was now very cold. It was awfully damp, and the breeze was picking up as it came upriver from the south.
We approached on the passenger side. We got about five feet from the window, and were staring eye to eye with a man in a ski mask. Armed with what looked like a Mack 10 submachine gun. There was a face at each of the two side windows, also with a ski mask on. I couldn't see any guns, but I had no doubt they were there.
We just stood there. "Roll your window down," I said, rather loudly. Nothing. "Your window," I said, a bit louder. "Roll it down." The eyes in the ski mask didn't even blink.
I realized that, with the engine running, and the defroster on, it might be a bit hard to hear. But, honest, I was beginning to wonder if we might be all wrong, and dealing with some foreign nationals who didn't speak English.
"Roll down your window," said Adams. Also quite loudly. No reaction. The eyes just stared. No reaction, although they had to be able to see our lips moving, at least. We stood there for another thirty seconds. No reaction. Neither Adams nor I wanted to take our eyes off the occupants of the van, and neither of us should get any closer. The last thing we wanted was for them to grab one of us as a hostage. But this was turning into the stupidest moment of my career. I took two steps forward, and stayed well ahead of the door handle, so that if he did open it, the door would be between me and him. That way, if they tried to grab me, I could turn and run. I'm slow, but catching me in the middle of the street would have been really dumb on their part. It would take three of them to drag me back. Size does count, sometimes.
Thus emboldened, I continued the eye contact with the passenger, and motioned downward with my hand. "The window. Open the window." Loud enough to be heard. Clear enough to be understood, or so I thought. Still nothing. It was like he was drunk. Stupidly drunk. Or stupid with fear. Ah.
I pulled my right hand back, made a fist, and struck the hood just in front of the windshield. Hurt like hell. At the same time, I yelled at the top of my lungs, "OPEN THE FUCKING WINDOW!"
He energetically cranked the window down, at the same time yelling back, "BE CAREFUL OF THE FUCKIN' HOOD!"
Ah, communication.
"Hi," I said, in a more normal tone. "My name's Houseman, and I'm a deputy sheriff in this county. I think it's time you surrendered."
Even under that mask, I got the feeling this "warrior" was about nineteen or twenty. "We ain't gonna surrender. We… we… demand safe, uh, safe passage." It was just like he was reading it. "We don't acknowledge your laws. We don't have to obey the laws of this state. We're freemen, we're twenty-one, and you have, uh, no rule over us."