RYAN LOGAN RETURNS to the station after his press conference to find me in the investigation room with a laptop opened to Google Earth. Ava and Carlos just stepped out to make a phone call that might help us, and Ryan and I have a moment alone.
“One of the agents showed me the recording of your interview with Llewellyn Carpenter,” he says, looking contemplative.
For a moment, I expect him to find some fault with my approach. The way I questioned Carpenter without getting him medical attention could certainly be seen as unethical. But the interview with Carpenter isn’t what Ryan wants to talk about—it’s what came after.
“That shot you made,” he says. “I’ve never seen anything like it. That’s a shot you can be proud of for the rest of your life.”
I open my mouth to show some modesty, but he waves me off.
“On a range,” he says, “shooting at paper targets, I could probably try that ten times and get it right once or twice. But this isn’t a range. Those weren’t paper targets.”
I nod, not knowing what to say. There’s a big difference between shooting at targets with wax bullets and drawing your gun in life-or-death situations. There aren’t any do-overs when it comes to real people and real bullets. That’s what I felt Ryan didn’t understand during the raid, when I stopped him from taking a bad shot.
I can see he understands it now.
“When you hear about shooters like Jelly Bryce and gunfighters from the Wild West,” Ryan says, “you never know if you should really believe the stories, or if maybe the legends have taken on a life of their own. Seeing you in that video, I can believe some of those legends.” He nods at me. “You’re a special breed, Rory. They don’t make them like you anymore. You might be the last of your kind.”
This last sentence he says with both admiration and reservation. In his tone is the wish that he could be like me and the realization that he isn’t. However good he might be with a gun, there’s a gulf between us that he doesn’t feel he’ll ever be able to bridge.
“Being able to shoot a gun isn’t the most important part of being in law enforcement,” I say. “I’ve seen that time and again working with Carlos and Ava. I’m not half the cop they are. Or you,” I add, earnest in my compliment. “I know we’ve had our disagreements, Ryan, but I respect all that you’ve done with this task force. There are a lot of women being reunited with their families because of you.”
He nods his appreciation, but I can see my words don’t cheer him.
I want to warn him that the situation we’re heading into is likely to get bloody. I want to ask if he’s ready, but I know he might see that as disrespectful. And, given the respect he’s just shown to me, I don’t want to insult him.
Before I can figure out what to say, Carlos and Ava return.
“Just got off the phone,” Carlos says. “Our plan should work.”
“Someone want to tell me what’s going on?” Ryan says.
Carlos points to the Google Earth image of Garrison Zebo’s property.
Zebo’s acreage abuts the foothills of the Franklin Mountains in an upscale area of El Paso. The property includes a large mansion and several other buildings on a campus thick with trees and other vegetation. A large blue pool sits behind the house, so close it looks like you could dive from the deck into the water. One of the large outbuildings looks like a garage, and considering Zebo owns a car lot, we suspect that he probably has some nice automobiles stored there. Another building, near the back of the property, looks like it could be storage, or perhaps even a guest house for visitors.
We assume the women are held there.
A thick wall—probably concrete or flat rocks concreted together, a popular style here in El Paso—runs around the perimeter of the property, topped with razor wire.
There is also a gate out front, with a small guardhouse.
“If he’s got women there,” Ryan says, “then he’s going to have armed men guarding them.”
I’m afraid Ryan is going to call off the operation, but then Carlos speaks.
“There,” Carlos says, pointing to the screen. “That’s our way in.”
Behind the property, an aqueduct runs through the foothills, carrying steel-gray water along a path that people probably use for running or horseback riding. These kinds of acequia trails are common in this part of the Southwest, where every ounce of water is precious.
On Zebo’s property, we can see a small drainage creek running down a hill, passing right behind the building where we think the women are housed and toward the back wall. The streambed is dry in the picture, but when there’s a rainstorm, it probably fills up. It’s hard to tell exactly how, but the streambed leads under the wall, where it intersects the main waterway. Without some kind of outlet, the back of his property would flood.
“Just got off the phone with the water company,” Carlos says. “The pipes they use in that area should be big enough for us to crawl through—although it might be a tight fit.”
“Should we wait for nightfall?” Ava asks.
“No,” Ryan says, surprising all of us that he’s the one to endorse this seat-of-the-pants mission. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Not just yet,” Carlos says, and all eyes turn to him. “Ava, you’re not going to like what I have to say.”
“What?” she asks.
“I don’t think you should go with us,” Carlos says to her. “It should just be the three of us.” He points to himself, then to Ryan and me.
I’m shocked. I don’t know why he’d want to leave her behind.
Ava visibly bristles.
From her face, I can tell she feels betrayed.