Gabe's Prize Read online

  Gabe's Prize

  Rae Monet

  Published 2005

  ISBN 1-59578-093-9

  Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2005, Rae Monet. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Liquid Silver Books

  http://lsbooks.com

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  Cover Art

  by Will Kramer

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  “SWAT Leader One. Bravo Red, come in.”

  Gabe shifted his position for a better line of sight. The trees on the dirt hill made it difficult to see.

  “SWAT Leader, go,” he commanded.

  He shouldered his weapon and peered through his night scope. The target area was quiet, an eerie calm, nothing moving. No one would suspect two people had been killed there earlier that same day.

  Too many trees. I need to move.

  “I’m in position, ready for entry,” his sniper said.

  “Roger, Bravo Red, hold.” He wanted to keep Bravo Red high, in case the suspect appeared in the window. He had already given him leave to shoot any chance he got. Gabe keyed his radio and checked in with the rest of his team.

  They had staked out the shooter for hours. The call for his team came at nine a.m. It trailed to midnight now, and they still waited. The moon wasn’t their friend, shining large and bright, the last thing any SWAT team leader wanted on a mission.

  “Check in,” he said. He called out for checks every fifteen minutes, always needing to know where his team was located. It wouldn’t pay to make a simple mistake.

  “Bravo One, north side.”

  “Bravo Two, south side.”

  “Bravo Three, back.”

  “Bravo Four, with Seven, in back.”

  Gabe sighed and lowered his gun.

  “Bravo Five, with Eight, front.”

  “Bravo Six, with Nine, got your six.”

  Gabe wiped the sweat from around his eyes. He and the others were suited in their heavy camouflage battle dress uniforms with full gear, including their face hoods, helmets, bulletproof vests, flak jackets with additional trauma plates. Not the normal casual wear for summer in Idaho, with the evening temperature pushing 80 degrees.

  Gabe evaluated his options as he scratched an itch caused by the perspiration rolling down his cheek. He had sweated more than he could afford and was close to calling it and changing up. Soon his team would be ineffective. But switching teams in the middle of an operation caused people to get killed.

  All this drama over a lone shooter, holed up in the middle of a residential area, across from a school. The guy, in a shooting spree that lasted the day, had taken out one civilian and one cop. No hostages, as far as Gabe could tell. They had already thrown in the first contact phone. No response.

  He clenched his jaw. Time to make his move. “Bravo Red, stand by, stay high. Hold fire, I’m moving up. Bravos Four, Five, ready the gas. On my mark.”

  The next step, shoot in the tear gas and see if they could force him out. Worse case scenario—the team would need to break in.

  “Bravo Six, cover.” Knowing Six covered him gave Gabe the confidence to move. He shifted from behind the tree and inched his way toward the front door. A shot rang out. Prepared to be a target, he hit the driveway and ducked behind the suspect’s car, then crawled up to the front, using the engine block as his shield. Adrenaline raced through him like currents of electricity.

  “This is the Boise Police,” he yelled, giving the sniper one more chance to surrender. “Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up.”

  The shooter answered with a single shot to the front of the vehicle. Gabe heard the ping against metal. Although his heart thudded in his chest, he kept his hands steady as he tugged the gas mask from a holder on his thigh.

  “Team, don masks. Ready entry, Four and Five. Go on, three, two, one… Go.” Gabe pulled on his mask and waited.

  The explosive canisters crashed through the house windows. Gabe counted the seconds, allowing the gas enough time to penetrate. When he reached a full minute, he leapt up, raced around the car and ran toward the front door in a zigzag motion.

  This part of the job he did without question, without thought, without fear. He had to. If he considered the danger, he would never do it.

  As he ran forward, his men flanked him. They took up positions around the door and lined up for entry, using the jambs as cover. Flashlights were attached to the top of everyone’s weapon; they were prepared for the unexpected.

  After a quick visual check, the rear man stepped forward, holding the battering ram the team had affectionately named Bertha. Slamming Bertha into the door, the big man crashed it open. Gabe ran in, his team after him. They needed to move quickly, taking advantage of the effects of the gas.

  Gabe went right toward the living room, his partner left and a third one of his men charged down the middle.

  Bingo, Gabe thought, sliding into the living room, shining the light ahead of him. The shooter, doubled over on the floor, his rifle clutched in his hands, was vomiting. As he looked up, saw Gabe, a handgun lifted in shaky fingers, the barrel weaving toward him.

  Shouldering his weapon, Gabe didn’t hesitate. Hesitation caused death.

  “Drop the weapon!” he screamed.

  The gun didn’t waver. The man was going to shoot.

  Gabe sucked in a breath, slowly released it and squeezed the trigger. His actions took a millisecond. The recoil told him his shot was true as the man went down with a grunt. Gabe rushed forward and kicked the rifle and gun away from the man’s fingers, out of reach.

  Damn, he thought as he bent down and checked his pulse. He felt a faint throb. The man was still alive. Barely. A shudder of relief passed through his bones. He hadn’t killed him outright.

  Gabe heard his men’s shouts as they cleared the remaining space. “CLEAR,” came from Gabe’s team. “Get a medic in here!” he shouted in response. As he straightened, the masked paramedic team member dropped down next to the man and worked on stabilizing him so he could be moved to the ambulance. The ambulance’s siren squealed as it drove up from around the corner, where it had been waiting. After he was cleared to be moved, two of Gabe’s other men stepped forward with a gurney and lifted the downed suspect.

  A dark shroud dropped over Gabe’s soul. In the back of his mind, he realized the shot had been necessary, but it didn’t make pulling the trigger any easier. He was a Piikani Blackfoot Indian, trained in the ways of the buffalo and living in harmony with the elements of the earth and sun. Killing went against every vow he’d taken. Gabriel, the Angel of Mercy, that’s what his tribe had labeled him.

  He felt more like the Angel of Darkness now, but allowing this man to take the life of another was unacceptable. Shooting him was the payoff Gabe had to tolerate. The punishment would come later, in the dead of night, when his personal shields lowered.

  Running on automatic, Gabe double-checked the house was clear and headed outside, glad to take off his mask. The gas would make it difficult to breathe the air inside the house for thirty minutes, at least, and keep people out for hours.

  Cop cars lined the curb. He saw his chief’s familiar figure standing next to a black-and-white cruiser, a portable light illuminated the area. He swerved toward him.

  “Detective Blackhawk, nice work.”

  Gabe leaned against the cruiser and took off his gloves. Releasing the band from his hair, he attempted to pull out the snags. “Had to take him out.” He frowned toward Chief Armstrong.

  “Couldn’t be avoided,” Armstrong said, his voice emotionless.

  After untangling his hair, Gabe ran his hand through it. “Hate to do that.” Their eyes made contact and even in the moonlight he saw a flash of sympathy.

  “I know, I know. Turn in your rifle, get a replacement, you know the drill.” Armstrong patted Gabe’s arm, his brows meeting. “Sometimes, Blackhawk, your eyes scare me. They’re so…”

  Gabe shrugged. He knew what the Chief meant. He’d earned his nickname because of his eyes, a light green that appeared almost translucent in contrast to his jet-black hair and brown complexion, even in the dark of night, the contrast must have been chilling. When a Christian missionary at the reservation saw Gabe’s eyes, he called Gabe a product of the devil. Gabe’s mother stepped forward and proudly told him Gabe was the Angel of Mercy.

  “Call the DA about the shooting, debrief your team and get some rest. You guys did good today.” Armstrong gave him a final pat, and walked off.

  Gabe grabbed his helmet off the car.

  The paramedic team wheeled the subject past him. Gabe nodded at the paramedic and the uniformed cop with him. “He going to make it?” Gabe waited, wishing he didn’t care.

  “Nah. Probably for the better. He’d be going to jail for life anyway. He killed two people today, actually three. The woman he killed was pregnant. Let’s hope he saves the taxpayer money and moves on.”

  Gabe dropped his head back, looked at the moon before closi
ng his eyes. He said a quick prayer for the soul of the lost child. Straightening, he sighed and squared his shoulders. He had a team to debrief, a statement to give, and a bunch of red tape to wade through as a result of the shooting. Especially if the man died. Then he planned to pass out before he had to go back on night shift. He rubbed the back of his neck when he felt this inkling, an unusual urge he hadn’t felt in a long time. He tamped down the feeling and ignored it.

  He hoped that when sleep claimed him later on that night, he’d be exhausted enough that the nightmares would not.

  * * * *

  Sitting in his parked car and watching the lighted windows of the lab where he had worked the past month, Dane Riely took an unhurried sip of his coffee. He savored the flavor of the hazelnut latté. Everything was going well for him tonight. The coffee, his confidence the night shift was working in the lab, the slow anticipation, this was it…

  He sighed. All good things had to come to an end, and what those people were doing was wrong. Heart pounding, the wetness on his brow an indication of his fear, he pressed down on the send button of his cellular phone, triggered the remote device and detonated the bomb. Everyone in the lab was sent into oblivion.

  The explosion rocked his car like a small earthquake.

  He smiled. The relief he felt was welcomed, much easier than he thought, much easier. His tension calmed and he felt overwhelmed with happiness. He wiped the drop of sweat from his neck. Been a while since he felt anything close to an earthquake, a nice reminder he was in sunny California.

  Good.

  Now he was a killer. Now he would be noticed and his cause recognized. Finally, he was important. He tilted his coffee cup from side to side, mildly annoyed to find it empty.

  Hmmm, I need a refill.

  With a grin on his face, he tossed his laptop into the seat next to him, started the car and headed to the local coffee shop.

  Now, I’m in business.

  Chapter Two

  Jo Clarin drew her Glock and followed her subject down the narrow alley. The buildings were so close together the dumpster almost blocked her way. She shimmied around it. Jo wrinkled her nose at the smell of aged urine. If Troy finds out what I’m doing, I’ll be in deep shit.

  “Dude, your husband would kill me if he knew you were out here.” Jim Ellis’ warning reinforced her fear.

  Jo spoke into her headset, her voice low. “Listen, I was simply working on paperwork when you called for backup. I am doing what I’m supposed to.”

  “That’s not going to matter to him.”

  Jo’s breath hissed through her teeth. She patted her stomach, an automatic gesture, and felt the smallest mound. Just eight weeks pregnant, she didn’t expect to show for another month or two. She knew her husband, Troy was right and she should stick to her desk, but…

  “One fugitive is all I ask. Then I swear I’ll go back to my desk. Besides, I’m here to take you guys to lunch.”

  “If word gets back to Troy, I’m not going to be the one talking to him.” Jim sounded scared.

  Jo smiled. Troy was a man even FBI agents didn’t want to mess with. A former pro NASCAR driver, he raced like a dream. But when he put the brakes on, look out.

  Movement made her shift her thoughts back to the situation. After he made his way out of the alley, her subject did a couple of funky steps then sprinted across the street to the park. Jo followed him. He must have made them. He was a wiry, twenty-three-year-old loser. He jogged holding his pants up, loose pants might be an appealing fashion statement, but didn’t work so well when you were on the run from the law.

  “I’ve got him goin’ into the park.” She spoke in her normal voice now that the subject was out of earshot. Someone walked by and looked at her funny but she ignored them and walked faster. “Give me your locations.”

  “This is Lion, I’m on the south side of the park.”

  She smiled, Randy “The Lion” Reinhart, one of her best men, was in heaven since Troy ordered her off the street. She tended to place him in the least dangerous positions. He had the most beautiful wife and child, and she didn’t want to deal with his wife’s wrath if something happened to him.

  “Dude, I’m on my way. Half a block out.” Jim said, and a wave of affection swept over Jo for her trusted number two guy.

  “Sandy, I’m on the west side,” she warned the newbie Sandy Krane. Just out of training, he grew cockier and more confident every day. Jo hated to see her new agents grow up and become terrible teens.

  “Zeik here, I’ve got your six.” Zeik responded to her call. Carl Zeik, her handsome college prep look-alike. He would stand out in this neighborhood like a shiny new Mercedes in a junkyard.

  Their target, James “The Mouse” Smith, had murdered one of his prostitutes in front of a key, credible witness; a fifteen-year old kid. A baby as far as Jo was concerned. A run-away who became a victim of this predator. He fled from Oregon to his brother’s place in Oakland. In came her squad. Oregon had the warrant; she had the lead. And despite the baby growing in her stomach and her husband’s orders, she burned to clear the case.

  Smith strode toward the woods surrounding the children’s play yard of the park. Jo had enough of the cat and mouse game. Her men were coming at Smith from all sides. She didn’t want to get into a chase with him. If he didn’t kill her, Troy would. She’d rather see Smith go down for murder than Troy.

  “I’m moving in.” Jo jogged after him.

  “Shit, Dude.” She heard the stress in Jim’s voice and ignored him.

  As the fugitive squad leader, she knew when to take the subject. She wasn’t going to let a little thing like her pregnancy stop her from doing her job.

  “Smith,” she called, pointing her gun. “FBI. Freeze. Hands where I can see them. Do it now!”

  He skidded to a stop and dropped his head in surrender. Jo trained her gun and assumed her most menacing expression.

  “Turn around, slowly.”

  He pivoted. As Jo visually checked him for weapons, she heard a cell phone ring. Hers. Shit.

  “On the ground. Face down, arms out, legs spread.”

  Smith nodded, his arms trembling.

  She kept the Glock pointed steadily at his chest as he sunk to the ground and sprawled out. Good, she thought, he’s going to cooperate. She could always tell.

  Her phone continued to ring. She needed to answer it. If Troy was calling and she didn’t answer, he’d know something was up. As she approached Smith, she tapped the answer button on her headset.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, babe.”

  She cleared her throat and changed her tone. “Hi, darlin’”

  Smith looked over his shoulder at her as if she’d changed species.

  “What are you doing?” Troy asked, the low timbre of his voice sending a thrill through her veins.

  She moved around behind him, watching closely for any movement.

  “Hold on a second, honey.” She reached down and hit the mute button, scowling at Smith.

  She put a knee in the small of his back, reached for his wrist and clicked the cuff around it. Drawing the arm back, she lifted her knee, pressed it into the palm then reached for the other. When he was secure, she clicked the mute button off.

  “Oh, I’m just messing around with the guys, you know, taking them out to lunch.” She grabbed the back of Smith’s hand in a pinch hold, bent his wrist and cuffed him with an efficiency that came from practice.

  Sandy came running up. She handed Smith over to him just as the rest of the guys arrived.

  “Right, guys, we’re going to lunch?” she asked as she pointed her finger at the phone and mouthed Troy.

  “Yeah, oh right, yeah, uh-huh,” they answered in unison.

  Jo’s armpits prickled with sweat. If Troy found out what she was doing, she might as well hand in her leave of absence request, damn it.

  “You feeling okay, babe? You barfing anymore?”

  She placed her hand on her stomach. “Not since this morning. I’m fine, no worries.”

  In Sandy’s hold, Smith opened his mouth, probably to proclaim his innocence or ask for a lawyer. Jo held up one finger and pointed to him, then made a slashing motion across her neck. His mouth snapped shut.

  “You’re not out in the field, are you?” Troy asked.

  Jo slid a hand over her brow to wipe the perspiration away. She hated to lie to Troy, but if he knew how dangerous her job really was, he’d blow a gasket.