Kill the Heroes

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  For Marilyn, the light of my life

  Acknowledgments

  I want to acknowledge the support and guidance given to me by Peter Rubie, my agent. You are greatly appreciated, Peter.

  Thanks again to Hannah Braaten, my editor, for all your help in bringing these stories to life.

  Chapter One

  Charlie Henry felt a gentle squeeze from Ruth’s hand and realized he’d zoned out. They were seated in generic metal folding chairs with the other guests facing the newly completed monument being dedicated at Recognition Park. He was half listening as the widely unpopular Albuquerque mayor gave a “brief” speech to the crowd gathered in the small park. Unfortunately the talk had been anything but brief. The smarmy politician had droned on for ten minutes already.

  At least it was comfortable out here on the grass, and the sun had set a half hour ago. The event was being held to dedicate the new public park, complete with a large, polished granite monument that honored the local heroes of the community. The mayor needed to pick up the pace, because darkness was approaching and the citizens were getting restless. The event was scheduled to conclude with the “heroes” mingling with the crowd for handshakes and hugs. Charlie felt uncomfortable with the label of hero, or being hugged by strangers—a Navajo taboo—but couldn’t find a good excuse for not attending. Besides, it was the perfect opportunity for him to invite Ruth to accompany him on what was phase one of their first date.

  The single mother worked at his and Gordon’s shop, FOB Pawn, and he’d finally decided the time was right to ask her out. They had plans for dinner once the event concluded, and he was looking forward to having her all to himself.

  Charlie hated ceremonies, suit jackets, and ties, but he was in good company, and not just because of the woman beside him. He was in the front row, Ruth at his right, and beside her was Nathan Whitaker, a decorated former army helicopter pilot who now ran a local company dedicated to helping vets find jobs. Behind them, in two more rows, were other honored vets and first responders, including police officers and fire department personnel. They’d all gone above and beyond their job descriptions in serving the citizens of the community. Each of them was with a family member or their personal guest.

  The recently established neighborhood here on Albuquerque’s west mesa, just south of the city of Rio Rancho, was named Freedom Heights by the opportunistic developers. Freedom Heights had decided to create the park and Charlie had been roped in as one of those being recognized.

  His name had been one of the first announced to the gathering, and he’d done the mandatory stand and nod, which was still quite embarrassing. Charlie had been raised as a modern Navajo, with professional parents, but culturally he knew that showing pride and immodesty was contrary to the Navajo Way of his ancestors. Still, the park was a welcome addition to the community, with a field of grass, plenty of trees, and a playground for youngsters.

  Finally the mayor concluded his speech, and turned once again to recognize the “heroes.” Ruth turned to Charlie and whispered, “Smile, handsome, everyone is taking your picture.”

  Charlie tried to suppress a chuckle, turning to grin at the beautiful woman who was still holding his hand. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a sudden flash and heard a familiar boom. Realization jump-started his brain in an instant.

  “Gun!” he yelled, as two more shots erupted. “Down!” He yanked Ruth toward him as he dove to the grass. “Shooter to the southeast!” he added, knowing there were armed cops among the crowd.

  Looking around for a second gunman as he pulled Ruth beneath him, Charlie, unarmed, felt helpless as he heard two more shots whistling overhead. The shouting and screaming made communication impossible, but after a few more seconds the shooting seemed to have stopped.

  Whitaker, the chopper pilot, had taken a hit in the chest, center mass, and was slumped back, sliding out of his metal folding chair. Charlie glanced down at Ruth at the same time he reached out to grab the wounded man.

  “I’m okay, Charlie,” she mouthed, or spoke. It was impossible to hear her.

  “Stay flat and play dead!” he whispered, hoping she’d understand. The pause after five rounds suggested that the shooter had a weapon with an old school five-round magazine, and was either out of ammo or inserting another mag. If it was a terrorist attacker, these people rarely stopped shooting until their rage or ammunition was spent.

  Hoping the armed officers at the ceremony were already making a move to locate the gunman, he got to his knees and tried to steady the badly wounded pilot. The woman beside him, who’d been introduced a half hour ago as Whitaker’s sister, Janice, was flat on the ground, curled in a fetal position and covering her head with her arms.

  Charlie reached out and touched Janice on the shoulder to get her focused. Instead she screamed, inching even farther away. He was straddling Ruth’s leg now, but needed to get closer to the wounded man. Maybe he could stop the bleeding. He looked down at Ruth, who nodded and rolled away, allowing him to get next to Whitaker.

  The screaming and shouts had died down. “We need some help!” Ruth yelled, looking behind her, where another person was also on the grass, bleeding from a wound in the bicep.

  Charlie inched over, still on his knees, and pulled Whitaker flat onto the grass, cradling his head and staring into the man’s eyes, which were wide open. The man blinked. “Help,” he managed, bloody foam slipping from his lips.

  Charlie brought out his handkerchief and began pressing it against the chest wound, which was just a few inches from the victim’s heart. He quickly surveyed the scene, noting that the crowd had scattered like baby quail fleeing from a Cooper’s hawk.

  At least two other people were down, bleeding from wounds or other injuries brought on by the chaos, but they were being tended by those who’d had the courage to stay behind. Purses, hats, and chairs were scattered everywhere, some upright and out of line, others folded, upside down, or sideways.

  Suddenly Whitaker’s sister came back to life. She sat up, turned around, and saw what had happened to her brother. “Nathan!” she yelled, inching over next to him. She looked up at Charlie, tears in her eyes. “Please, help him.”

  Charlie nodded, kept pressure on the wound, then caught the eye of an EMT running in his direction, sidestepping and dodging his way past the fallen chairs and personal items on the grass. The medic was carrying a medical kit retrieved from their unit, one of three parked along the street curb.

  The EMT was a woman, Charlie realized as she approached, tall, slender, and barely twenty-one. He inched away to give her some room, but didn’t take the pressure off the hole in Whitaker’s chest.

  “At least one bullet wound,” he announced as the medic crouched to evaluate the situation. She looked back at the two other victims, one a cop in uniform, the other a fireman.

  “This man goes first,” she announced. “Keep pressure on the wound until I’m ready, Sergeant Henry,” sh
e added, remembering his Army rank.

  “Copy,” Charlie replied. He saw movement to his right and realized that Ruth had crawled back to the next row of overturned chairs. She was helping the wounded police officer, who’d managed to sit up.

  “Okay, get ready to switch. I’ve got a trauma bandage ready,” the EMT ordered, getting his full attention again.

  The medic was joined by another on her team, and Charlie was able to stand up and step back. Ruth had also been relieved by a professional, and she wordlessly joined him, slipping her bloody hand into his own. She looked up at him, her face pale with grief.

  “What happened? Who was shooting at us?” she whispered.

  Charlie shook his head. “The shots came from over there, in front of those houses.” He glanced across the road, which was illuminated by the red and blue lights of at least a half dozen emergency units. “I saw the flash, but it was too dark to see the shooter.”

  “Maybe they caught whoever it was. I didn’t hear anything after the four or five shots,” she said. Ruth turned around in a slow circle. “Your friend Nancy must be out there, searching.”

  Charlie nodded. “She’s a good cop, and there’s plenty of law enforcement here. Whoever did this was willing to take the risk of getting their instant attention,” he added, noting the arrival of several uniformed officers, along with a cop in street clothes, a man he recognized immediately.

  “Here comes Detective DuPree,” he announced.

  “A familiar face, I’m sad to say.” Ruth sighed, looking in that direction. “But a good officer.”

  Charlie nodded, then made room for an ambulance crew, who were pushing a gurney across the grass to where Nathan Whitaker was being tended. The EMTs had already attached an IV with fluids, and were getting ready to transport the man. Whitaker’s sister was standing alone, still in shock.

  Ruth let go of Charlie’s hand and went to comfort the woman, who was shaking uncontrollably. Charlie had seen men struck by bullets more times than he’d like to admit, and in his experience, Nathan Whitaker’s life was right on the edge at the moment. If the former captain survived the night, he’d at least have a chance.

  Charlie turned and saw that the other two who were wounded appeared to be in much better shape. Both were conscious and sitting up as they were tended by medics. Out in the street, a crime scene van had arrived, and their team was setting up lighting equipment to illuminate what was now a crime scene. He caught the eye of Wayne Dupree as the cop approached, reading the man’s grim expression. The experienced officer’s tightly clenched jaw told Charlie they hadn’t nailed the shooter—at least not yet.

  Whatever happened next, Charlie knew it was going to be a long night for the cops—and the witnesses, especially for him and Ruth, who’d been within a dozen feet of all the victims. That dinner date he’d planned was definitely no longer on tonight’s agenda.

  “Charlie,” DuPree greeted, stepping up and holding out his hand.

  Charlie shook his head, holding out his bloody hand, palm up. “Better not this time, Detective.”

  “You get hit?” DuPree asked quickly, giving Charlie the once-over.

  “No, this belongs to Captain Whitaker,” Charlie explained, glancing toward the wounded man as he was lifted quickly onto the gurney. “I did what I could.”

  “Think he’ll make it?” DuPree asked, his voice lowered now.

  “I’ve seen worse,” Charlie responded. “But…”

  “Yeah,” DuPree replied, then quickly turned to the uniformed cop beside him, a sergeant that Charlie didn’t recognize. “Go with the EMTs, Kruger, and make sure nothing else happens to the wounded man. Call me immediately if there’s any change in his condition.”

  “Yessir,” the sergeant replied crisply, and quickly left to join the wounded and the medical team.

  Charlie and DuPree watched silently as Ruth accompanied Whitaker’s sister, Janice, to the rescue unit, then waited until the wounded man and the others climbed inside.

  “You’re with Ruth … Brooks now?” DuPree asked. “She’s dropped the alias, right?”

  “Yeah, she decided to keep Ruth but go back to her maiden name now that her ex is serving life. Makes it a lot easier, though the marshal’s service still checks up on her and Rene once a month.”

  “She’s the first person I’ve met who’s actually been in the witness protection program,” DuPree commented, watching along with Charlie as Ruth walked back to join them.

  “I suppose you want to find out what I observed,” Charlie asked, changing the subject.

  “You were sitting next to Captain Whitaker?” DuPree asked.

  “Actually, I was, Detective DuPree,” Ruth volunteered as she came to Charlie’s side. She looked up at both men. “And I’m doing okay, so don’t worry about me. Not much gets me frightened anymore.”

  DuPree brought out a small digital recorder. “Okay, let’s start by clarifying where everyone was seated, then move on to the moment that anything looked wrong or out of place. Either one of you jump in if you recall anything that might help track down the shooter.”

  The detective paused and looked around the cluttered park, switching off the recorder with his thumb. “Sweeney isn’t here somewhere, is he?”

  DuPree was referring to Charlie’s Army buddy and business partner Gordon Sweeney, who was usually close by whenever anything dangerous went down. It was clear that the detective respected Gordon, though he found Gordon annoying at times. The two were like oil and water.

  “Gordon is with my son Rene at the moment,” Ruth said, managing the trace of a smile. “They’re at FOB Pawn, supposedly messing around with the business computers. Or, if I know Gordon, more likely the game consoles.”

  “Hate to say this, but he might have been useful tonight,” DuPree admitted. “Okay, let’s get back to the facts. “Where was everyone positioned when the shooting started?”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Charlie was seated beside his Irish buddy Gordon, who was driving the two of them to the hospital to check up on the wounded. Charlie also wanted to see if Detective Medina—their friend Nancy—had learned anything about the incident that might provide some information.

  Gordon and Charlie had worked on special ops during their four deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan, and though they were civilian shop owners now, they always seemed to end up in the midst of trouble, even here in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Once Charlie realized how close Ruth had come to being shot tonight, he had to know more about what was going on, and if the cops had any leads on the gunman.

  “You think Ruth is going to be all right?” Charlie asked, checking his cell phone again to see what the local press was reporting about tonight’s events.

  “She’s with Rene and Gina at her and Nancy’s place, and they’ll have plenty to talk about once they get the boy to sleep,” Gordon reminded. “You know how Gina can make anyone relax.”

  Charlie nodded. He’d known Gina Sinclair since they’d dated back at Shiprock High School on the Rez, and though Gina had come out long ago and was with Nancy, they were still best friends.

  “So Whitaker’s sister, Janice, was his plus one, sitting to his right, and Ruth to his left. I think both women were lucky not to have been hit by one of the bullets. You say the shots came from a distance of more than a hundred yards?” Gordon asked.

  “Maybe a little more than that. Cops found a fresh .223 shell casing pressed into the ground by a shoe print. It was to the right of a utility pole about that distance away. According to what I heard, that pole was in a direct line of sight to the front row of guests. DuPree thinks the shooter must have braced the rifle against the pole. For someone with skills, it wasn’t a difficult shot,” Charlie concluded.

  “But five shots were fired?”

  “DuPree thinks the shooter scooped up the other casings, but couldn’t find the fifth before he decided to bail. I saw the muzzle flash from the first shot, and was able to narrow down the shooter’s position.”<
br />
  “Makes sense. He was concentrating on getting the shots off before he was discovered. So they have shoe or boot prints?” Gordon asked.

  “Yes, but just how clear they are, I have no idea. I’ll see what Nancy knows, or at least what she’s learned and can share.”

  “Think she’s going to be assigned to the case?” Gordon asked. “She and DuPree make a good team. He’s bad cop, she’s really bad cop.”

  “We’ll see.” Charlie slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket as Gordon pulled his big pickup into the visitors’ parking lot of Saint Mark’s Hospital. Charlie had changed clothes, not wanting to go out again with his cuffs and sleeves stained with blood.

  They were crossing the street, headed for the main entrance of the tall, old brick hospital, when Charlie spotted Janice, Captain Whitaker’s sister, sitting with a man on one of the benches beside a flower garden. She was crying loudly, and her companion was cradling her in his arms.

  “That’s Whitaker’s sister,” Charlie observed, keeping his voice low.

  “Just got bad news?” Gordon replied.

  “That would be my guess,” Charlie replied. “But she wasn’t doing so great before.”

  “Whatever the case, let’s pay our respects as best we can. There are two other victims in there that need some support too,” Gordon reminded.

  They quickly reached the emergency room counter and learned that Nathan Whitaker’s status wasn’t available to the public at the moment, but they could take a seat in the waiting room just ahead.

  When they walked into the next room, Charlie spotted the APD sergeant that DuPree had instructed to accompany the wounded man and his sister during transport to the hospital. Kruger was on his cell phone, watching an attractive, distraught woman in her mid-thirties arguing with a blond-haired man about Charlie’s size, wearing tight-fitting workout clothes.

  The sergeant noted Charlie’s arrival and shook his head, apparently conveying bad news. Charlie stepped back, waiting for the cop to complete his call, before getting the details.