31

Veranda licked her parched lips. After spitting fine particles of grit from between her teeth, she batted at her clothing. Dust rushed down her shirt collar, into her hair, even up her nose. The wind howled around her, coating everything in rusty-beige silt.

Forty minutes earlier, Veranda and her entire Homicide team had piled inside Marci’s Tahoe to follow the command bus. Lieutenant Diaz traveled alone in his own car at the end of the procession. For over half an hour, the convoy of police vehicles had lumbered through the storm to reach the target location. The tactical team had gone ahead in their armored fleet of panic-inducing urban assault vehicles.

Veranda had arrived with the others a scant five minutes ago. While Commander Webster set up a command post on the perimeter, she’d clambered amidst the brush and cactus to reach a small hillcrest. The high ground, however, afforded no better view in the storm.

Marci stepped beside her, gesturing in the general direction of the target site. “I can see why you walked up here.” Her tone oozed sarcasm. “This cloud of dust is way more interesting to look at than the cloud of dust where they parked the bus.”

Veranda jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the idling diesel-
powered behemoth. “At least we’re not stuck in there.” Inside the belly of the beast, command staff officers, supervisors, and federal agents were poring over maps and rosters.

Frank, Tony, and Sam joined them. “Why the hell did I bring these?” Sam tapped a pair of binoculars slung around his neck. “Useless.”

She squinted at the group through her goggles as another gust of wind beat at her. “Where’s Doc?”

“He needed some extra time to … what’s the word? Accessorize.” Tony’s Brooklyn accent made the comment humorous. “Check him out.”

She turned to look and rolled her eyes. “Are you serious?”

Doc had put on a hazmat suit. When he spoke, his words were muffled by the air filter over his mouth. “Dust particles can get in your lungs and do major damage.” His eyes widened behind the clear face shield. “It’s no joke.”

She shook her head. “Our SAU team is about to assault a building filled with trained, well-armed criminals. Dust isn’t my top priority.”

Standing behind the scrub-covered ridge in relative safety, Veranda’s frustration intensified. She wanted to be with the SAU operators making entry, not stuck on the perimeter. Given a choice, she always preferred action. Probably the reason she and Sergeant Grigg got along.

“What was that?” Doc asked, turning in circles to see through the face shield’s limited window.

Veranda heard it too. “That was rifle fire. Full auto. The cartel’s putting up a fight.” More shots followed, this time single action in rapid succession. “And that would be Grigg and his band of merry men answering back.”

She had full confidence in the SAU team, but they were going in under less than ideal conditions. Waiting through another barrage of gunfire stretched her patience to the breaking point. Though she expected radio silence during the assault, the lack of information over the shared frequency unnerved her. Every instinct urged her to rush over the hill to join the fray.

“Sounds like they’re taking serious fire,” Sam said.

As the rest of her Homicide team concentrated their attention on the volley of gunshots, Veranda heard a car engine approaching from the opposite direction of the firefight. Raising a hand to her brow above her goggles, she caught the movement of a vehicle cresting a nearby slope to her left.

“Hey,” she said to get her squad’s attention. “Someone’s coming.”

“Who the hell is that?” Marci said.

With visibility severely compromised, Veranda relied heavily on sound. As the vehicle drew closer and turned sideways, she made out the dust-covered boxy profile of a Jeep. A black square appeared near the front of the vehicle.

She pointed at the shape. “The front passenger window’s opening.”

Something wasn’t right. Why would anyone inside a Jeep lower a window during a haboob, allowing grit and dust to blast them in the face and get all over the interior? She could only think of one reason.

She used her left hand to shove Sam behind her. “Get down!” As the others hit the deck, she drew her newly issued Glock with her right hand and stepped forward to cover her team.

A heartbeat later, several muzzle flashes erupted from the open window. Using the bright orange spots as a target, she took aim and fired repeatedly.

The sound of bullets pinging off the Jeep’s metal frame reached her ears over the howling wind. Behind her, the others had begun to return fire from their prone positions. Her squad’s suppressive fire provided an opportunity for a tactical reload. Never taking her eyes from the Jeep, she yanked open a pouch on her ballistic vest and tugged out a fresh magazine with her left hand. Working by feel, she used her right thumb to depress the release. She exchanged the two magazines with practiced speed, smacking the loaded one home with the heel of her palm. The maneuver took less than five seconds.

Dropping to the dirt next to Sam, she flattened herself on her belly and extended her arms in front of her. Planting her elbows on the ground marksman-style, she continued to shoot despite the absence of a clear target.

“I’ll keep them busy,” she said to Sam, eyes still fixed on the adversary. “You notify the command bus that we’re taking fire. Advise we can only confirm one hostile.”

Seconds stretched interminably. Weapon blasts rang in her ears. Was that why she didn’t hear Sam’s rumbling baritone over the portable radio mic clipped to her shirt collar?

She nudged his leg with her knee. “Sam?”

No response.

She flicked a glace down at Sam. He lay on his back, perfectly still. Blood seeped from beneath the edge of his ballistic vest to form a swiftly spreading crimson pool.