AS SUNRISE APPROACHES, Carlos and I sit inside the command center van with Ryan Logan and a handful of FBI agents and El Paso officers. We’re all wearing bulletproof vests and carrying our sidearms. There’s a cabinet inside for rifles, and Carlos’s LaRue .308 and mine are both in there for easy access. But we’re not expected to actually enter the raid.
We’re five blocks away.
We’re the backup.
Ryan’s bank of computer monitors displays images of the warehouse. The FBI managed to discreetly install cameras on the streets in front of and behind the building. Another image comes from a drone high in the sky, giving us a bird’s-eye view. The other shots come from the lapel cameras on the SWAT team leaders.
One agent inside the van has headphones on to hear updates on the two raids that will occur simultaneously. That way, he can keep Ryan updated on what’s happening at the brothels in Tucson and Colorado Springs.
The air is cool and crisp outside, but inside the van—with all the bodies packed into a small space—the air is stifling. The tension is palpable, as if every person in the vehicle is sweating out their anxiety and adrenaline.
Ryan gives the command for the raid to begin, and soon each monitor displays activity. The lapel cameras provide shaky on-the-ground footage. Meanwhile, we can see the team members coming into view on the roadside cameras. The drone shows the officers from above, small specks crowding in on the building.
The agents in front hold police shields, followed by two men lugging a battering ram, and bringing up the rear is a crowd of officers ready to swarm inside once the front door is knocked down.
They don’t make it that far.
Suddenly all of the images are full of gunfire—bright flashes of light out of the second-story windows of the warehouse. The lapel cameras become so shaky it’s impossible to tell what’s happening. The drone camera shows SWAT agents running for cover behind the few cars in the lot. They return fire but mostly to provide cover for their retreat. As they clear out, like cockroaches running when the lights come on, a few of the agents are left behind, unmoving. They lie prone in the dirt—dead or dying.
At the back of the building, the other SWAT team is pinned down behind a dumpster.
Ryan Logan shouts into the radio for updates, but there’s too much chaos for anyone to respond.
One of the lapel cameras is frozen, pointed toward the sunrise, as its wearer lies inert. A red blob slides across the image—blood running over the camera.
“Come on, Rory,” Carlos says to me. “Let’s get the hell in there.”
We grab our rifles and shove through the door into the cool morning air. We sprint to the truck, and I spin the tires. Other agents and officers from the command center come running outside in our wake, including Ryan, who has a deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face.
I flip on the siren and the lights, and we span the five blocks in a matter of seconds.
When we arrive, there’s a lull in the gunfire, and I drive right into the middle of the battleground, trying to provide cover for the agents who are pinned down. Carlos jumps out and raises his rifle to the windows where the gunfire came from.
I leave my LaRue behind and heft the battering ram out of the dirt. I run toward the door as fast as I can manage while hauling the fifty-pound hunk of metal. Normally, using this thing is a two-person job, but I’ll have to make do.
Someone takes a shot at me, bullets thudding into the dirt by my feet. Carlos squeezes the trigger one time, and the shooting stops. I don’t need to turn my head to know he got him. When I’m almost to the door, I swing the ram back and use my momentum to bring it crashing just above the knob. With a thunderous boom, the door swings inward.
Inside is complete darkness.
I hear women crying and screaming.
I draw my pistol and grab my flashlight. Then I rush forward into the building with Carlos close behind.