T. Parker - Iron River

Forty minutes later, Hood was stuck in traffic in Corona. He slowed to a crawl and cursed and answered a call. Reyes gave him both of the numbers he found on Finnegan’s phone, both outgoing and both made within the last nine hours. One went to a number that Hood recognized as belonging to Owens, placed not long after Hood had left the ICU at Imperial Mercy. The most recent was a text message to Hood.

Late the next night a small army surrounded Pace Arms under the cover of fog and darkness. The air was cool and still and it misted the windshield of Hood’s Yukon, but this was not a time for wipers.

Behind the building, Hood watched from his Yukon as a big raised Dodge Ram pickup truck backed up through the bright shipping yard lights. It finally came to rest against the Pace loading dock, beside a battered white Ford F-250. Hood had figured two vehicles for two thousand pounds of iron, plus the weight of the crates. Two vehicles wouldn’t betray the weight, and would either cut the risk in half or double it, depending on how you looked at it. The big motor home sat parked against a far wall, its awning now extended for shade over two white plastic chairs. It was as dirty as it had been before, all its windows opaque with dust except for the big black windshield. Hood wondered if someone lived there, a watchman perhaps. There was a clean black panel van parked across from it.

Ron Pace came trotting down the loading ramp. Bradley and Clayton got out of the truck and shook hands with the gunmaker. Bradley wore white shorts and red canvas sneakers and a Bush-Cheney T-shirt, with his holster and sidearm bobbing unashamedly on his right hip. Clayton wore a light blue seersucker suit and what looked like white Hush Puppies. Pace was dressed for safari in cargo shorts, suede work boots, and a shirt plastered with pockets and epaulets.

Hood looked into his rearview at Janet Bly. He could barely make her out behind the wheel of her SUV with a San Diego office ATFE agent beside her.

“Charlie, Janet here-look at those dorks,” she said over the radio. The headsets were made for hands-free contact between the teams, and sound was excellent. “I can’t believe this Jones kid. You know him?”

“Long story.”

“I can’t wait to see his cute little face when we cuff him and shove him in a car. His buddies, too.”

“All units,” Hood said. “We’ve got Bradley Jones and Clayton Farrar on scene. Pace is here, too.”

Hood knew that Ozburn was parked around front of Pace Arms with an agent on loan from Glendale. There were four other vehicles involved: an undercover sedan parked down the street from Hood with two more agents inside, another two-agent sedan near the Pace Arms entrance, two more ATFE agents in an unmarked SUV watching the on-ramp to the 405 freeway, and one roving unit. All drivers were radio-wired, all agents armed with.40-caliber autoloaders, one shotgun and one tear gas launcher per vehicle. The ATFE Bell would track high and loose until the ground agents made their move.

Bradley and Clayton and Pace laid out tie ropes in the bed of the Ram, then walked up the ramp and into the warehouse. A few minutes later they emerged one-two-three with hand trucks, and the hand trucks each held four wooden gun crates. In turn each man went down the ramp, arms extended, leaning back against the weight. Pace and Clayton lifted the boxes into the truck bed, and Bradley hopped into the bed and arranged them.

The crates seemed lighter in Bradley’s hands, and Hood wondered at the strength of his body and the audacity of his mind. He had to hand it to Bradley for sheer boldness. In this young descendent of Joaquin Murrieta, Hood saw outlaws dead and outlaws not yet born, and he also saw Suzanne, and he even glimpsed something dark and tempting that he had long ago banished from himself. In its place he had installed the straight and the narrow, the pledge of allegiance, the call of duty, to protect and serve. All of this he had done willingly and with his eyes open. He could have chosen differently. But a man could not be both things, both the law and outside the law, no matter how valiantly Bradley Jones was trying to be. And if Bradley succeeded at being both, then Hood and his choices were superfluous.

He watched the young men push the hand trucks back up the ramp and bring down another load. They finally stopped when the Dodge held five rows of ten crates. Then Bradley spread a large blue tarp over them and brought the ropes up and tied it all down with a flourish of exotic knots. Another fifty cases went into the worn Ford. The words ALL SAINTS CHARITY and an El Monte address appeared in fading paint on the door.

Hood yearned to make the pinch here and now, but without the money it wasn’t a sale, and without a sale, arrests would net little. The money was everything-the money and who supplied it and where it came from.

“Charlie, this is Sean. Whazzup back there?”

“They’re ready to leave. The black Ram and the All Saints Ford.”

“Let Bly take the lead. They’ve never seen her.”

“Fine.”

“You cool with that?”

“I said fine.”

“Something wrong, Charlie?”

“I don’t like the look of the gun crates or the motor home. And there are three more men inside that building, not counting Ron and his girl.”

“Talk to me, Hood.”

“The crates are heavy to Pace and Clayton and lighter to Bradley. The motor home is dirty and the awning is out and there are chairs set up outside it, but the windshield is clean. Yesterday it was filthy. I’m talking the whole windshield, not just where the wiper blades would go-clean like somebody’s going to drive it soon. Ron’s uncle is still inside, and two of the workers. It’s just not adding up.”

“Okay, what, then?”

“I want to hang back and see, Sean. You guys take Bradley and Clayton.”

“You want unit four to back you up?”

“I’ll take unit four, you bet.”

“Unit Four, Frankie, you there?”

Hood watched Bradley guide the Ram onto the street. The charity Ford followed, driven by Clayton, his left hand out the window with a cigarette, tapping against the door in a fast rhythm.

The vehicles rolled slowly down the street and made right turns toward the boulevard. When they had gotten out of sight, Hood heard Bly’s engine start up and he watched in the rearview as her black Suburban pulled from the curb. Light from the streetlamp played along the flank of the big machine, then vanished. The unit four GMC lurked half a block down, unmoving.

“Frank,” said Hood.

“Charlie, I’m here. We’re not missing the fun, are we?”

“You can go if you want.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I hope you have a good view of that thing, because I can only see the top of it.”

“I’m locked. When something happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

Half an hour later, Hood saw two of the gunmakers walk from the warehouse into the yard lights and continue down the ramp. They moved self-consciously, as if they knew they were being watched. The short one wore a Dodgers cap, and the taller one a rugby shirt and a windbreaker.

They moved across the shipping yard, past the Sun King motor home to the black Econoline. The short one keyed open the driver’s door and hit the UNLOCK button and climbed inside. The engine came to life.

“Frank, we’ve got the two workers in the van. They’re taking off.” Hood watched the van pass through the yard lights to the gate, and the gate slide open on its runners. It was heavy on its back wheels. It bounced dramatically as it crossed the gate runner. The driver signaled his turn onto the empty street.

“They’re riding heavy,” said Hood. “They’re yours, Frank.”