Grundy, Rosano, Happy Zant, and Ringo Wagner, the two other members of the ATF Situation Response Team, climbed out of their truck. They stood in a tight huddle watching the Sheriff's SEB team dismount from their van twenty yards away. From this distance, it looked like only SEB team leader, Scott Cook, and his first scout, Rick Manos had come. Then I saw Sonny Lopez jump down out of the back of their van. He was only supposed to be the messenger, so what the hell was he doing back here? Scott, Rick, and Sonny moved across the parking lot toward us.
'Let's talk to these guys,' I said to Grundy.
He nodded, and along with Nacho Rosano, walked with me toward the SEB team. Once we got to within a few feet, everybody stopped. There was enough electricity here to start a power company.
The sheriffs wore tan jumpsuits with Glocks in low-slung outside rigs strapped with Velcro to their right legs. They were carrying long rifle cases called drag bags. Each one was folded up around a long gun and contained a shooter's mat and sniper's pack, with a multifrequency radio and several bullet trays. All of them, including Sonny, were wearing heavy Cover6 Plus tactical vests.
ATF was in black jumpsuits with 'SRT SWAT' in gold letters on the back. They also carried big holstered sidearms, wore Ultima flak vests, and were carrying fifty-pound mission packs.
Everyone traded appraising looks. It seemed it was up to me to perform the marriage ceremony.
'Okay,' I said. 'We need to get some stuff behind us before we start.' Nobody said anything. 'I think somebody needs to own up to what happened at Hidden Ranch.'
Grundy shifted his weight. 'We told your warrant control desk there was a possibility of automatic weapons in there.'
'Not according to them,' Cook said immediately.
'Excuse the expletive, but fuck 'em,' Grundy said dangerously.
'Whatta you mean, fuck 'em? Fuck you! They said you only told them about the impersonating bust.'
'That's bullshit.' Grundy was getting hot. 'Somebody, probably some six-dollar-an-hour civilian in your warrant office, is covering his ass. We told them there was a weapons complaint and that there was a possibility of ordnance at that address. We also-' He stopped and everybody waited. 'Okay,' he went on. 'We put a low assignment risk on it because we'd braced Smiley before and, quite frankly, he looked to us like a feeb. We didn't see any trouble coming. In retrospect, we shoulda assigned a higher risk to the warrant delivery. That was a mistake. But we're not fucking mind readers. Nobody thought the shit was gonna jump off like it did. We backed up Deputy Rojas. We were just around the corner.'
'Why didn't you serve your own damn warrant?' Cook asked.
'We thought it was unnecessarily provocative to roll in there with a SWAT team. We didn't think he had an AK-forty-seven, but we wanted to give your guy cover, so we parked nearby.'
They were all silent for a long time.
'Look, we're sorry,' Grundy said. 'I know that doesn't cover the loss of Deputy Rojas, but the fact is, we feel pretty damn bad about it. We tried to come to the funeral, but you guys ran us out.'
Scott Cook looked at Sonny Lopez. It was almost as if he was asking Sonny's permission to go for this. Finally Sonny nodded.
'Okay,' Scott said. 'We accept the apology.' Then he put out his hand and Gordon Grundy shook it. After that we shook all around.
'I understand this guy is in the mountains up on rough terrain.' Grundy was getting right to business.
'Right,' I said.
'Okay, we're good to go,' Grundy said. 'We're all V-five-certified climbers.'
'So are Rick and I,' Scott said. 'But Sonny Lopez couldn't climb off a whore's ass in the middle of a vice raid.'
'Then what's he doing here?' Grundy asked.
'He came over to the SWAT house to give us the word, then wouldn't get outta the damn van.'
'I'm going,' Sonny stated bluntly.
'We can't take anybody who isn't certified. It's dangerous and it'll slow us down,' Grundy said.
'I'm going,' Sonny repeated.
'Me too,' I said. 'I didn't put this whole thing together so I could read about the capture in the newspaper.'
'You're not going either, Scully,' Scott Cook said. 'Neither of you are.'
'Then you're not getting the map,' I answered. 'I'm the only one who knows where on that mountain Smiley went. Those are the terms.'
Scott and Gordon glowered at me. Again, I was the problem.
'Okay, if that's the way you want it, you guys can come. But we're not waiting for either one of you. If you can't keep up, we're leaving you.'
'Fine,' I said. Sonny nodded.
'Is that all you've got to wear?' Grundy said, looking at my jeans and cotton shirt.
'I'm sure you guys have another one of those snazzy lookin' bunny suits in the truck.'
Grundy turned to Rosano. 'Nacho, get this asshole suited up.'
Nacho headed to the truck and I followed. As I was changing my clothes inside, putting on the jumpsuit and Tac vest, Gordon Grundy and Scott Cook walked over to the back door.
'Okay, so where the hell am I going?' Grundy asked.
I pulled the book that Marion Bell had given me out of my briefcase, and flipped it open to the Chocolate Mountains. 'He's heading for a Navy SEAL camp. Right here.' I put my finger on the spot marked Silver Pass.
Chapter 44
We were all in SRT's SWAT truck, because it was bigger, newer, and had better toys. Gordon Grundy drove, while Sonny, Rick, Scott, Nacho, Ringo, Happy, and I sat on the benches in the back facing each other with tight, blank expressions, dressed like Gulf War commandos. We sped along the 210 on our way toward Palm Springs, lost in our own thoughts. Too many friends had died or had been injured in the last two weeks.
I thought of Emo, remembering his easy smile, the way he had of looking at you without judgment. I had once seen him in a booking cage telling jokes to a guy he had just busted, both of them doubled over with laughter. He could arrest somebody without making a power trip out of it. He understood human weakness and always seemed to be able to communicate, even with the most hardened criminals. Emo was the kind of cop I had joined up to be.
Before we left Agoura, I had called the hospital and Bridget reported that there was no news. Jo was still in ICU and critical. Bridget sounded like she was beginning to come apart, her voice tight, verging on shrill.
As we rode toward the desert, I was feeling very alone in the crowded state-of-the-art SRT truck. I knew I had been going through a simultaneous process of growth and degeneration. I was slowly exposing the vulnerable parts of myself, taking the chance that the people I cherished the most wouldn't hate me for those weaknesses. While this helped me in my personal life and on the job, I no longer saw the landing lights, unsure of why I was even on the mission or if I would ever find the answers. Then along comes this one moment of moral certainty. Find Vincent Smiley and make the sonofabitch pay. As if his destruction would somehow restore order to my fractured value system.
Jo Brickhouse and I were coming from the same place emotionally. The order we both craved from police work had only produced confusion and disillusionment. But she was lying in a hospital close to death as a result of my bad police work, and I was in this SWAT truck roaring across the desert to avenge a shattered sense of justice, telling myself I was doing this for Jo, a woman I hadn't even liked a few days ago and had badly mis-evaluated, and for Emo, a man I'd admired but hadn't spent that much time with.
Was this just a big, ugly piece of street theater? Was I making a splashy move to convince myself I was still relevant? Could I put an end to my moral slide by stepping on the back of Vincent Smiley's neck and jamming his
