CHAPTER 25

Held in the late afternoon on the rooftop patio of a downtown Santa Fe hotel, Kerney’s surprise seventieth birthday party went off perfectly. He’d been lured there by his old friend retired state police chief Andy Baca, under the pretense of attending a meeting about increasing law enforcement retirement pensions. In attendance were family members, friends, former associates, and dignitaries. The governor made a quick appearance to appoint Kerney an honorary colonel aide-de-camp on his staff, the mayor read a proclamation declaring it Kevin Kerney Day in Santa Fe, and the state speaker of the house presented him with a legislative memorial praising his decades of outstanding law enforcement achievements.

Unbeknownst to Kerney, Clayton and his family, including Isabel, had come up the night before and stayed at the hotel. Sara’s parents had flown in from Arizona. Kerney’s ranch foreman, who cleaned up nicely, and his wife also made an appearance.

Dozens of retired and serving sheriffs and police chiefs from all parts of the state came to the party, along with a large contingent of former senior officers who had at one time or another served under Kerney’s command. Three former district attorneys, several judges, and a half dozen trial lawyers, including Gary Dalquist, were crowded at the long bar talking politics. Patrick had brought his girlfriend, Jill, to keep him company in the midst of all the old people sipping wine and nibbling hors d’oeuvres. Along with Wendell and Hannah they huddled at a table, snacked, and talked under a clear blue sky with a view of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains as a backdrop.

Knowing her man and aware of his discomfort in the spotlight, Sara stayed close to Kerney until Clayton snuck him away for a private father-son drink in the downstairs hotel bar. They snagged a corner table away from a noisy group of day-trippers up from Albuquerque. Kerney ordered a single-malt scotch and Clayton asked for a craft-brewed pilsner.

“Do you remember how we met?” Clayton asked when the drinks came and they’d finished their toast.

Kerney laughed. “Do I! You cited me for trespassing on Mescalero tribal land. Didn’t budge when I showed my shield and asked you to let me off with a warning. No way, I had to pay the fine.”

“A good beginning, wouldn’t you say?” Clayton joked.

“Little did we know,” Kerney mused. “I had no idea you were my son, and you steadfastly believed you needed no father.”

“I’m glad it happened.”

Kerney nodded in agreement. “Me, too. Are you staying over tonight?”

“Just Grace and me. We’re making a long weekend of it. Hannah leaves after the party. She’s dropping Wendell off in Albuquerque on her way to Las Cruces.”

“Good. How about the four of us meeting for Sunday brunch?”

“I’d like that.” Clayton’s phone rang. Danny Fallon’s name showed on the screen. “I’ve got to take this.” He answered and asked what was up.

“If you want El Jefe, now’s the time,” Fallon said.

“Explain.”

“I’ve had NSA using voice recognition software from that recording you gave me to intercept Trevino’s phone conversations. He’ll be at the Eagle Pass Kickapoo tribal community center tomorrow for a feast and celebration. I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. A DEA airplane can be at the Santa Fe Airport in two hours if you’re game. Your sheriff says it’s your call to make, but he strongly recommends you accept my invitation. You can call him if you like.”

“Not necessary.”

“I didn’t think so. He faxed me a copy of your criminal complaint and the court approved arrest warrants. I’ll outfit you with equipment and weapons when you get here.”

“Okay,” Clayton replied.

“Two hours.” Fallon clicked off.

Clayton put the phone down and grimaced.

“Something up?” Kerney asked.

Clayton laid it out. “I’ve got to do it.”

“Of course you do. I’ll take you to the airport.”

Clayton laughed and shook his head. “You don’t get out of your own party that easily. And I can’t sneak out of town on Grace without an explanation.”

Kerney finished his scotch and sighed. “Reality intrudes once again. Don’t get shot up in Eagle Pass and ruin my birthday weekend.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

At the Santa Fe Airport, Grace gave Clayton a half-hearted kiss and said, “Things have to change.”

Motionless, with her arms crossed, she waited until he was seated next to the pilot before walking away with not so much as a goodbye wave.

She was right, of course. Things had to change. And while they’d talked about it, especially with an empty nest looming in the near future, he’d always managed to push the subject aside. That wasn’t going to work anymore.

Fallon met him at the Maverick County Airport and filled him in on the short ride to Eagle Pass. Trevino had vanished after the mysterious disappearance of Lorenz and Garza, whose bodies had yet to be found. Longwei and Sammy Shen were operating the syndicate using Carmella Schuster and Vito Torres as fronts for the organization. Under their leadership, gang violence in Piedras Negras had fallen to a twenty-year low. Citizens were becoming cautiously hopeful about the future.

“That’s jim-dandy,” Clayton said. “What about Trevino?”

“He went deep into the Bolsón de Mapimí and laid low for a while. Not a peep. I thought I’d lost him. Several weeks ago he made phone contact with the Mexican Kickapoo chief. That’s when NSA started recording his transmissions.”

“Who is he talking to?”

“Mostly the chief, Galindo. It seems Trevino has decided to rehabilitate himself. He returned to the village and had what’s called an arrival ceremony. From what I understand, it’s not much more than giving thanks to their god for a safe return home.”

“That’s his rehabilitation?” Clayton inquired.

Fallon laughed as he pulled into the resident agent parking lot. “Don’t be so skeptical. He also had a warrior cleansing ceremony. Technically, it’s known as the murderer’s ceremony. Went on for days, with fasting and praying, asking the spirits of his victims for forgiveness. They did some sort of a buffalo thing. You can’t get into their version of the hereafter without it. A Kickapoo elder from the Oklahoma tribe conducted it.”

“There’s salvation for all of us, no matter what tribe,” Clayton cracked, not in the mood for forgiveness.

“God knows we all need it, bro,” Fallon added.

Inside, they went directly to the conference room. Behind the table was a wall-mounted whiteboard with a hand-drawn diagram of the entrance to the Eagle Pass Kickapoo Reservation. It outlined four vehicles in different locations, numbered accordingly.

Fallon stood in front of the whiteboard. “The Eagle Pass Traditional Kickapoo Tribe manages Colonia de los Kickapoo. In order to officially transfer title of the Mexican hunting ranch to the tribe, Trevino must sign the paperwork in Eagle Pass. He’ll do that tomorrow at ten a.m. As you know, only tribal police and FBI have jurisdiction on the reservation, so we’ll take him when he leaves.”

With a pointer he indicated where the interception would take place. “We’ll move when he’s a quarter mile off the rez. There will be four units of two-man teams positioned out of sight until I signal to converge.”

He tapped the unit marked number 1. “That’s us. We’ll do the takedown. Long-range target acquisition surveillance will be tracking him constantly. Additionally, two choppers will be airborne with spotters and snipers.”

Fallon described the make and model of the pickup truck Trevino would be driving. “He’ll be shadowed all the way.”

“Will he be traveling alone?” Clayton asked.

Fallon shook his head. “Galindo, the Mexican Kickapoo chief, will accompany him.”

“That could get sticky.”

“We can’t control everything. Every agent knows Trevino is our only target.” Fallon put the pointer on the table. “I got you a room at the hotel next door. Check in, freshen up, and I’ll buy you dinner.”

Clayton smiled. “That’s the least you can do.”

Fallon grinned. “We’re gonna get him.”

Clayton studied the diagram. “I hope so.”

Lying awake in the hotel room later that night, Clayton barely slept, his thoughts jumping from one worry to another. He couldn’t image Trevino surrendering peacefully. Scenarios played out in his head. Would he attempt to evade capture? Mount a frontal attack if boxed in? Did he have some alternate escape route that Fallon hadn’t considered? Surely he’d try to kill them all—or as many as he could.

He thought about Grace’s icy stare when he’d told her why he had to leave Kerney’s birthday party. And then watching her abruptly turn away as the DEA airplane taxied down the Santa Fe Airport runway. She’d barely forgiven him for his inexcusable absence at the family gathering to help Blossom Magoosh and her granddaughters speed Lucy Nautzile on her way from The Shadow World of human beings to The Real World beyond, The Land of Ever Summer. He was seriously derelict in his duty to family, and she had every right to demand that he change his ways.

What could he do? He wasn’t cut out for a desk job.

Up at six, he did a forty-five-minute workout in the hotel fitness center, showered, dressed, and had coffee and a piece of toast in the breakfast room. His stomach couldn’t handle anything more. By seven-thirty a.m. he was with Fallon and six agents from Houston checking out equipment and weapons in the DEA conference room. At eight a.m. dispatch reported Trevino and his passenger were on their way, less than two hours out.

Time slowed for Clayton. After Fallon’s final operational briefing, he fell silent in the middle of the nervous chatter that filled the conference room. As the teams left one by one to take up their positions, Fallon held him back for a moment.

“Trevino dead or alive, do you care?” he asked.

“Death is too easy a punishment for him,” Clayton answered.

“Don’t take any unnecessary risks, okay?”

Clayton headed for the door. “Let’s all get home safe.”

For over an hour they sat in the unmarked unit, saying little, listening to radio reports of Trevino’s progress on his way to Eagle Pass. When surveillance announced he had crossed into Texas, Clayton tensed up. His heartbeat quickened and his lips felt dry in spite of the oppressive humidity the vehicle’s air-conditioning couldn’t completely conquer.

When the truck came into view, he wanted to stop it there and get it over with. He forced himself to relax as it passed by, Trevino just a blur behind the steering wheel.

“Soon now,” Fallon said.

Soon became an hour more of waiting. When aerial surveillance reported Trevino and Galindo were exiting the reservation, time stretched out again for Clayton. Almost magically, the truck came into view. As it approached, Clayton could see Trevino clearly through binoculars, his head tilted toward Galindo as if listening to him in a casual, friendly way.

On cue, everyone moved. Fallon spun their vehicle onto the pavement, headed straight at the pickup. A unit cut the truck off from behind. The two remaining units joined up quickly with Fallon and Clayton, spread out like wingmen to form a barrier. On Fallon’s command, every vehicle swung into position and stopped. Agents piled out of the vehicles and took cover, weapons at the ready.

Up ahead, the truck screeched to a stop. From behind the protection of the driver’s-side door Fallon barked orders to Trevino over a loudspeaker. Clayton wasn’t listening. He watched Trevino say something to Galindo, reach across him, and open the passenger door. Galindo nodded, placed his hands on top of his head, and stepped out of the truck. He walked directly to the side of the pavement and waited.

“The chief is unarmed,” Trevino shouted through the open window. “He will do as you ask.”

Fallon directed Galindo to go to the unit behind the pickup, where the officers frisked him, cuffed him, and locked him in the backseat cage.

“Your turn, Trevino,” Fallon said. “Step out of the truck.”

“Is Detective Clayton Istee with you?” Trevino asked.

“I’m here,” Clayton shouted.

“I’ll surrender to Istee, no one else.”

“No deal,” Fallon snapped. “Take the keys out of the ignition, drop them on the ground, and exit the vehicle with your hands in plain sight. Do it now.”

Trevino threw a handgun out the window. “I’m unarmed. Send Detective Istee to me. I’ll surrender only to him.”

Fallon glanced at Clayton, who was in a kneeling position behind the open passenger door. “We’ve got a clear head shot. It’s your call.”

Clayton stood. “I’ve always wanted to meet El Jefe,” he whispered. “Here I come,” he called out.

Eyes locked on Trevino, Clayton mentally counted the paces—forty-six exactly—to the truck. He unholstered his handgun. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Open the door from the outside handle and exit slowly.”

Trevino didn’t budge. “My true name is Wind Stands with Bear Among the Wallows. I wanted you to know that.”

“Why?”

“Because you have been a worthy enemy.” Trevino ducked and came up holding something in his hand. Clayton fired a second after a head shot blew Trevino’s skull against the rear window, blood splatter coating the glass.

Clayton opened the door. Trevino had a cell phone in his hand. His face was unrecognizable.

I can’t do this anymore, Clayton thought. He removed the magazine from the semiautomatic, tossed it aside, dropped the weapon, and turned. He was no longer guzhuguja—in balance. Forty-six paces back to Fallon’s unit wouldn’t fix it. He needed to travel a lot farther than that.