Kylie Brant - The Last Warrior

Honani covered the microphone on his headset. “Mitchell wants to get the units in place to take them.”

Joe nodded. “Tell the rear flank units to pull within five miles or so, no lights.” The combined officers from the Border and Customs agencies would make up those units. “Remind Mitchell to wait until they verify their placement. We don’t want to lose the van before we’ve got them boxed in.”

Ten minutes later, the DEA agent shouted, “Show-time!”

The helicopter pilot swooped lower, to hover above the blue van speeding down the deserted road. Honani manned the exterior mike. “DEA. Stop the vehicle immediately.” The van swerved slightly, then increased speed. “This is the United States Drug Enforcement Agency. Pull over.”

A couple of miles ahead, blinding spotlights were switched on, revealing a barricade across the road, sharpshooters situated behind it.

“You are surrounded,” the DEA agent informed those below laconically. “There’s another armed unit behind you.” The van slowed abruptly to avoid drawing closer to the FBI roadblock. “All passengers should get out slowly, hands in the air.”

As the van careened to a halt, Joe looked over at the agent. “Are we putting down?”

“Damn straight we’re putting down.” A rare grin crossed Honani’s face. “I’m not about to miss this party.” The pilot veered to the side and began landing several hundred yards to the left of the scene.

When they arrived at the area, officers and agents were swarming all over it. The panicked group of illegals were being separated and patted down. Several agents were searching the interior and exterior of the vehicle. As they approached, Joe was unsurprised to see Tarken and Mitchell questioning the driver, who he recognized as the same guy who had taken off on the ATV at the cave site.

He looked around, expecting to see Niyol Lee. Rounding the vehicle he saw him collapsed against the front driver side bumper, a hand to his heart, with two agents near him. “Sir, do you need medical assistance?” one asked. Lee bent lower to the ground, and the first agent took a step closer.

In the blur of an instant Lee lunged forward, reaching for the agent’s gun, even as the second officer swung his weapon higher. But Joe was already at Lee’s side, his gun pressed against the man’s temple.

Lee stilled, his gaze darting toward him.

“Go ahead,” Joe advised him grimly. “Give me a reason.”

“You owe me so big. It’s going to take a lifetime and you’re still going to owe me.”

Joe grinned at Arnie’s grousing as they made their way to the interview room. “It’s not my fault that you didn’t have medical clearance. Next time bring a note from your doctor when you want to come back to work.”

“Bite me.”

“It wasn’t that big a deal. You were just as crucial standing by and picking up Graywolf when we radioed in.”

His friend’s voice was sour. “Yeah, right. You were in a DEA ’copter with special ops equipment, and I got to pull over a guy in a late-model Chevy Avalanche. That’s almost the same.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Lawyered up as soon as I brought him in. We haven’t gotten near him since.” They stopped, Arnie’s hand on the knob. “Now he’s here to play Let’s Make A Deal.”

They entered the room, where Brant Graywolf and a suit were waiting, both seated at a table. Joe nodded at the officer keeping watch over the pair. “Thanks, Danny.” The officer nodded and left the room.

“I’m Ruben Filmore from the Tucson office of Filmore, Drake, Conner and Drake.” The lawyer was a thin man in his midfifties with a bad comb-over, a pinched mouth and rimless glasses that threatened to slide down his long aquiline nose. “I’d like it noted that Mr. Graywolf is here against my legal advice. And I’ll remind you of his right to know what charges are being leveled against him.”

“We’ll get to that.” Joe pulled out a chair, sitting directly across from the younger man. “Tell us why you’re feeling talkative, Brant. Against legal advice.”

Despite the hours he’d spent in a cell, Brant Graywolf still had a cocky manner. It would never occur to him to face the consequences he had coming. That wasn’t his MO.

“I’m willing to tell you what I know of Quintero’s operation.” Graywolf looked from one to the other, gauging their reactions. “He was a lot bigger than you realize. He was trying to get me to introduce him to my former contacts. I told him I didn’t play that game anymore.” He shook his head. “That guy had balls, I’ll give him that. Or else he was too stupid to realize how many people he was ticking off by expanding so rapidly. Lots of people wanted to take him down for that alone.” He gave Joe a nasty grin. “You saved them the trouble.”

“Guess we had it figured all wrong then,” Arnie told Joe. He looked at the kid. “See, we had you pulling the strings for Quintero. You were the one with the contacts, all right. And you used him to sell the pure ice you were scoring in Mexico.”

“Don’t know where you guys are getting that. Other than a couple spring breaks in Cancún, I’ve never even been to Mexico.”

“Not you. Niyol Lee.”

The lawyer frowned. “Who?”

“No idea who you’re talking about, man.”

But Joe had seen the kid’s eyes flicker at the mention of the name. And he was quickly getting tired of the whole charade. Graywolf hadn’t uttered one truthful word since he’d entered the room.

“Maybe your memory will come back if we tell you we’ve got a book he kept of dates and times you paid him to make runs to Mexico.”

Graywolf was swinging his head in denial. “I can’t help what he wrote in some book, but if that’s all you’ve got, I don’t get why I’m still here.” He turned to Filmore. “They don’t have enough to hold me. Do something to earn that fat retainer you’re getting paid.”

The lawyer’s mouth screwed up more tightly but he said, “I must agree with my client. Unless you can show some compelling evidence linking him to a crime, you have to release him. I’ve already submitted a request for bail.”

“It’ll be denied,” Joe said flatly. “You want compelling evidence?” He pushed away from the table, went to the door. “FBI Agent Mitchell has something you might want to take a look at.” Mitchell walked in carrying a plastic evidence bag. Joe leaned a shoulder against the wall, prepared to watch the show.

The agent let the bag with the Sig revolver inside land on the table with a thump. Graywolf reared back a little, his face losing color. “Recognize that, Mr. Graywolf?” Mitchell inquired. He looked back at Joe. “Looks to me like he does.”

“No.” Graywolf recovered quickly. “Should I?”

“Well, I’d think you would. We found it in your bedroom, top shelf of your closet. ’Course there’s no law against you having it. Just thought it was sort of a coincidence.”

Rather than asking the obvious question, the younger man pressed his lips together and remained silent. Mitchell continued, “Seems the same type of gun was recently used to murder three young men.”

“This meeting is over.” Filmore stood and tugged at Graywolf’s sleeve. The younger man remained immobile. “My client has nothing more to say to you.”

Mitchell smoothed his tie, which was stained with whatever he’d had for lunch that day. “I’m guessing ballistics are going to match this gun with the murder weapon. As a matter of fact, I’m willing to bet on it.” He looked around at the other occupants of the room. “Any takers?”

“This is an outrage…” Filmore began.

Graywolf violated a traditional Navajo rule by interrupting. “Shut up.” The lawyer looked startled, then slowly sank back into his chair. Leaning forward, Graywolf told Mitchell, “If that gun matches the murder weapon for three kids I didn’t even know, someone must have stolen it out of my room. Maybe they’re trying to frame me.”