way. Jake’s training officer had made it clear that they were not friends now nor would they ever be.
Jake could see the veteran cop leaning against the counter, two to-go cups of coffee in front of him, and Maria on the other side, smiling.
Suddenly a dispatcher’s voice broke over the radio. “All units in vicinity of Goodman Ranch Road and Tyler Way, report of shots fired with possible injuries.”
Jake brought up a mental map of the city in his mind. He’d only been in Phoenix for a little over nine months, but he’d made it a priority to know it as well as he could. That included memorizing as much of the layout as possible. In just seconds, he narrowed in on the location. It was in a nearly deserted part of town, about three and a half miles away from their current location.
He was just about to hop out and get Haywood when he saw his partner exit the diner with the two cups in his hand, undoubtedly hearing the call on his radio. He handed the cups to Jake through the open window, climbed in, then grabbed the radio mic. “9-82 Adam, in route Goodman Ranch Road.”
“Copy, 9-82 Adam,” the dispatcher said.
The moment they hit the street, Haywood flipped on the emergency lights and the siren.
“Coffee,” he said, holding out his hand.
Jake gave him the cup with the X on the top. That was the one topped off with cream and sugar. Jake liked his black.
Haywood took a sip, then smiled. “When we get there, slow and cautious. Understand?”
“Yes,” Jake said.
Neither man spoke again until they turned onto Goodman Ranch Road.
Haywood nodded at the radio. “Call in and see if they’ve narrowed down the location.”
Jake did.
“Caller disconnected,” dispatch reported. “Reported on Goodman near Tyler Way. Nothing further.”
A minute later, they pulled to a stop at the corner of the two streets.
“Would have been nice if he had at least told us which side of Goodman he was on.” Haywood stared out the windshield for a moment, then opened his door.
“What are you doing?” Jake asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Haywood said as he climbed out.
Jake hesitated a moment, then did the same.
Haywood stood next to the car, his head swiveling slowly as he surveyed the surrounding area. Jake turned his gaze outward, but there really wasn’t much to see. Only a few lights pierced the darkness, revealing a handful of small ranches, but that was it. Mostly it was just open desert.
“I see three places over there,” Haywood said, pointing across Tyler Way. “And two more behind us. You?”
“I counted three behind us,” Jake said.
“Three?”
Jake pointed each of them out. There were two homes across the street from each other, and one large building on another piece of property, set far back from the road.
Haywood frowned. “Yeah. Three.”
Jake opened his mouth, hesitated, then decided he should say it anyway. “Do you think maybe it was a prank?”
His partner studied the desert some more. “Won’t know until we check. We’ll start with the houses on the other side of Tyler, and work our way back.”
3
Durrie resisted the urge to close his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the groan that escaped his lips. What a disaster.
“Don’t anyone go anywhere,” he said into the radio. “I’m going to need everyone’s help.”
“Hey,” Larson said. “Cleanup’s your job.”
“Yeah, and killing the target without bringing the police was
Durrie unhooked the monitor from the cable, then folded up the mirror, and shoved both into one of the bags. That done, he picked everything up and moved his foot around in the dirt, doing a quick cover-up of the impressions that had been made on the ground.
As he headed back to the barn, he coiled up the cable, and kicked dirt over the imprint it left behind in the sand. But circumstances meant he had to rush, so he knew he wasn’t doing the best job he could.
When he stepped inside the barn, he saw that not only was Larson still there, but the other two men — Morgan and Fry — had arrived also.
“You,” Durrie said, pointing at Morgan. “Get the camera. And you.” He pointed at Fry. “The rifle.”
“You’re not in charge here,” Larson said.
“Bullshit. I am now.”
Larson narrowed his eyes.
“What?” Durrie asked. “You want to sit here and argue about whose dick is bigger while the cops try to figure out where that 911 call came from? Are you
He stared at Larson, knowing they were wasting precious seconds. In Durrie’s estimation, they had no more than five minutes tops, and with potentially four bodies to deal with, it would require everyone to pull this off.
Larson finally let out a less-than-pleased grunt, then headed for the door.
“You’ve got forty-five seconds,” Durrie yelled after him as he moved over to Owens’s body.
The man’s dead eyes looked upward at nothing. Durrie didn’t bother closing them. He wasn’t worried about things like that. Bodies were his job. They were things, nothing more.
Right off, he saw several problems — the blood pooling on the ground, the bits of Owens’s head that had adhered to the back of the stall. With the proper amount of time, none of that would be an issue. But that was something Larson’s sloppy work had denied him.
From one of his bags he pulled out a packet of plastic sheeting. He laid it on the ground near the body, avoiding the blood, then rolled Owens onto it. With a deftness that came from years of experience, he enclosed the body and sealed it with duct tape in less than half a minute.
Just about the time he was finishing, the door opened. As Larson reentered, Durrie caught sight of the body of Owens’s friend lying just outside, and a plan came to him.
“Mills is dead,” Larson said. “Throat slashed. Timmons is alive, but out cold. No wounds I can see, though.”
Durrie stood up. “Help me carry this outside.”
Together they maneuvered Owens across the barn and through the door. There was no time to go get the van Durrie had parked half a mile away, so they were going to have to use the car Owens had arrived in. Thankfully, Durrie had thought ahead and had snatched the keys from Owens before he bundled him up.
“Back of the car,” he said.
Once there, he balanced his half of the body on his chest while he unlocked the trunk. Fifteen seconds later, the interior light of the trunk was permanently disabled, and Owens was tucked inside.
As Durrie ran back into the barn, he yelled at the other two men, “Hey! Aren’t you guys done yet?”
“I got the camera,” Morgan said. “I’m just helping with the rifle.”
“It’s stuck,” Fry explained.
“You’ve got twenty seconds, and you can’t leave it there,” Durrie told them.
He grabbed his bags from where he’d left them and rushed back outside. He placed both in the back seat of the sedan, then withdrew two more packets of sheeting from one of them. Before he shut the door, he flicked the
