J Jance - Queen of the Night

Dan had to agree with that. Packing a new government-issue Beretta 96D didn’t inspire a whole lot of confidence on Dan’s part. If he was going to be involved in a shooting war, he would have preferred the comforting presence of his old M16.

“And you did not return fire, correct, Mr. Muñoz?” Meecham asked.

“I did not,” Muñoz replied grudgingly. “If you ask me, it’s about time somebody rescinded that standing order. If those bastards shoot at us, we should be able to shoot back. Why do we have to do this job with both hands tied behind our backs?”

“That order stands, Muñoz, and don’t you forget it,” Meecham told him. “I don’t want you creating an international incident with that little Beretta of yours. If you were to return fire, all hell would break loose around here, and the full wrath of the gods of DC would rain down on all our heads.”

Meecham paused and looked around the room. “Let’s see a show of hands. How many of you think guns are the biggest problem you have when you’re out on patrol?”

Russell’s hand shot in the air. No one else’s did.

“Since its inception, this unit has had only one fatality, Mr. Pardee,” Meecham explained, speaking directly to Dan. “Mitchell Davis was a Rosebud Sioux, and he was wearing his Kevlar vest when he died. If he’d taken a bullet to the chest, he probably would have been fine. He had stopped a group of illegals. What killed him was the one-pound rock one of them picked up and used to bash in his skull.

“Guns are expensive,” Meecham continued. “Ammunition is expensive. Rocks are free, and they’re everywhere. Fortunately for us, most of the federales aren’t well trained, and they can’t hit the broad side of a barn. That window they shot out last night was pure luck-good luck for them and bad luck for you, Mr. Muñoz. What makes you think it was a federale?”

“I saw it,” Muñoz grumbled. “I heard it.”

“Was it dark when this happened?”

“Yes, it was dark,” Muñoz replied. “Of course it was dark. I’m working nights now, remember?” Russell Muñoz was beginning to sound aggrieved, as though he thought Meecham was picking on him.

“Exactly,” Meecham said with a smile. “And after that flash, you were blind as a bat for a couple of seconds. If someone had rushed you right then, you wouldn’t have seen them coming. Rocks don’t have a flash, but they don’t make any noise, either. They’re the ultimate stealth weapon-silent and deadly. In other words, Mr. Pardee, watch out for rocks and for people throwing them.”

Dan nodded. “Got it,” he said.

The meeting had broken up shortly after that. As soon as Meecham left the room, Russell Muñoz turned back to Dan. “Beretta, my aching ass,” he said. “One of these nights I’m going to bring my AK-47 along for the ride and give those dickheads a taste of their own medicine.”

“With your dashboard camera recording the whole thing for posterity.” That was from Kevin Ramon. He hailed from San Xavier District near Tucson and was the only full-blooded Tohono O’odham member of the unit. He was also one of the guys who had given Dan the old thumbs-up.

“Already thought of that,” Russell told them. “I’m fixing up a Kleenex box that I’ll be able to drop over the camera as needed. What Meecham can’t see and doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Kevin raised a disparaging eyebrow. “If you say so,” he said.

With that, Russell Muñoz had stormed from the room. Dan had been taken aback by the whole exchange. You could maybe disagree with your superior officers, but doing so in public was out of bounds.

“I’ll bet he doesn’t even own an AK-47,” Kevin said. “And if he ever tried to fire one, he’d probably shoot himself in the foot.”

This was probably not the best time for Dan to mention to one of his fellow Shadow Wolves that he himself really did have such a weapon.

It was the same AK-47 that he and Bozo had earned that day in Iraq. While Dan and his dog were taken away to be stitched up and bandaged, some of the other guys in the convoy had taken charge of the kid’s dropped weapon. They had carefully dismantled it and sent it home, one piece at a time, with directions inside to each of their loved ones that they should forward all pieces on to Micah Duarte in Fort Thomas, Arizona.

By the time Dan’s deployment ended and he was back home, he had been amazed to discover that his grandfather Micah had reassembled the weapon from all those separate pieces. The gun was back together-cleaned, ready and waiting, and it was stored under lock and key at Dan’s house in Tucson.

“That’s not to say we never have shoot-outs,” Kevin continued. “The mules who drive drugs for the cartels are usually armed to the teeth. They shoot first and ask questions later, but if that happens, don’t look to Russell to help you out. The federales may not be the best shots, but neither is Russell. Just wait’ll you see him on the target range,” Kevin added. “He’s pathetic.”

“But I thought we were supposed to be the best of the best,” Dan argued. “Best shots, best trackers.”

Kevin shook his head. “All that and ex-military, too, but as far as I know, the only uniform Russell ever wore was for Cub Scouts.”

“How’d he get in, then?” Dan asked.

“Pull,” Kevin returned. “His father’s a big mucky-muck in the BIA. He pulled a few strings, and here we are stuck with Russell. Take my word for it, one of these days he’s going to screw up bad enough that someone’s gonna get killed. As for Meecham’s rock lecture? Don’t take it personally. Meecham made it sound like it was meant for you, but it wasn’t. He was mostly talking to Muñoz.”

Several months later, after Dan had talked Bozo’s way into the unit, he had his own up-close and personal experience with one of those “stealth” rocks. Dan now sported a jagged scar on his left cheek where he had been nailed. Kevin said it gave him “character,” but Dan knew the damage would have been far worse if it hadn’t been for Bozo. The dog had barked a warning, letting Dan know someone was there. Dan had ducked for cover just in time. The rock had grazed him, but had it not been for Bozo’s timely intervention, Dan Pardee might have died on the spot, or he could have lived the rest of his life with only one eye rather than two.

Each night Dan wasn’t paired with Russell Muñoz, he counted himself lucky. Russell’s academy-acquired skills didn’t measure up to the real ones Dan, Kevin, and the others had picked up in military firefights. In crisis situations, when split-second decisions were called for and when someone’s life was hanging in the balance, Dan didn’t think Russell would be able to hold up his end. The Paiute was all bluff and bluster and precious little action, and no one had yet to see any sign of Russell’s legendary AK-47.

Bozo, on the other hand, was just the opposite. The dog didn’t spend any time bragging about what he would or wouldn’t do, or agonizing about it, either. He simply did it. When the guy hiding on the cliff above him was getting ready to heave that potentially lethal rock in Dan’s direction, Bozo didn’t stand around discussing the relative merits of an AK-47 over your run-of-the-mill Beretta. Nope, the dog simply stepped up and did what needed to be done.

When they were on patrol, Bozo always rode shotgun in Dan Pardee’s front seat. Why wouldn’t he? The dog was his partner. He had earned the right to sit there.

Komelik, Tohono O’odham Nation, Arizona

Saturday, June 6, 2009, 7:46 p.m.

78º Fahrenheit

Jack had barely finished parking the car before Abby was out of it and ready to don the overalls and hiking boots he had brought along for her. “Where is it?” she asked. “Can I go look now?”