Cahill

I could hear the din from the bar as I exited my SUV and I was still almost a block away. What a shame! I knew from long experience that would change as soon as my foot crossed the threshold. I tend to have that effect on people. I’m six feet six inches tall and I weigh an even 250 pounds—all of it broad shouldered muscle. My Body Mass Index at my last physical was less than four percent. My light brown hair is styled exactly the way it’s been for the past fifteen years—ever since I first joined the Navy. Sure enough, no sooner had I taken my first step into the bar than the noise died. When I turned left and stepped up to the bar the people there couldn’t back away fast enough. I took a stool in the middle of the empty space and sat down, waiting for the bartender to approach. “I’m not looking for any trouble.” “Good…neither am I. Give me a ginger ale.” He reached under the bar for a glass and some ice. Twenty seconds later he slid the glass in my direction. I pulled a fiver from my pocket and dropped it on the bar. He ignored it and walked away to draw a few beers and pour some wine. It looked to me like this was a pretty cheap crowd. Checking up and down the bar all I could see were longnecks and drafts. I reached into the lower left pocket of my cargo pants. Like almost everything else I was wearing they were a true deep navy blue. My heavy shoes were black as was my wide belt. My belt said as much about me as the bold white lettering across my chest. Just below the American flag over my heart were the letters that were my life—U. S. MARSHAL. On my right hip was my nickel plated .44 Magnum Colt Python, just behind two speed loaders in addition to the twenty-four rounds on the belt. On my left hip was my ASP Talon baton—every bit as deadly a weapon in my hands as the revolver. A pouch at the back of my right hip held my stainless steel handcuffs and its partner on the opposite side held my radio—my link to my backup team. I placed the photo flat on the bar as the bartender returned to me. “I’ll have another,” I said in a loud voice, continuing so I wouldn’t be overheard. “Don’t pick it up and don’t make a production of looking at it. I’ve been told that he comes here a lot. Is he here tonight? If he is and he escapes because you’ve given me away I’ll see to it that you’re arrested for obstruction of justice.” He gulped a few times but did as he was told, nodding slightly in response. I continued almost at a whisper. “If my nose is pointing to twelve o’clock, my right ear to three, the back of my head to six, and my left ear to nine, tell me where he is. Again, don’t point or do anything obvious and we’ll be fine.” He pretended to wipe the bar as he whispered, “About 4:30 with his back to you.” I picked up the reflection in the mirror then asked, “Red shirt with black and white stripes, looking away from me?” He nodded again. Now, in my normal tone of voice I asked, “Where’s the men’s room?”

Fredrick_Udele · Fantasía

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69 Chs

CHAPTER 35

We stayed on the edge of the old dirt road knowing that it would be harder to see us there than on the driver's side of the car. I signaled Daryl to take the passenger side of the car while I tiptoed around the rear of the car, drawing my Python once I was there with Max at my side. From there it was only two quick steps before I surprised Parsons by pushing my pistol into the side of his head. "Keep your hands where I can see them and off the horn. I won't have any problem shooting your head off, scumbag!" He placed his hands behind his head and slid out under Max's keen eye. I bent him over the trunk and handcuffed him, turning him over to Dan Powell who drove the squad car back to the staging area with Parsons confined in the back.

Carl Haynes and his wife had been the first to arrive. We watched from the top of a big hill opposite the gate as they drove their car inside and then closed the gate, replacing the padlock on the chain, but not locking it. Fifteen minutes later we heard a radio call reporting shots fired and an officer needing assistance on the other side of the city. We weren't at all surprised to see Jeremy Haynes and Parsons drive up in Irwin's patrol car a few minutes later. They stayed outside the fence "directing traffic" until the Chief arrived and drove into the quarry where he met with Carl Haynes outside one of the large warehouses on the site. Jeremy Haynes waited until he saw the big tractor trailer slowly wend its way up the road. He had the gate open by the time it finally arrived and walked through the gate, closing it. We took out Parsons once he was well inside.

Once Dan had taken Parsons to the staging area the road was sealed off by state police who permitted only the two huge ore haulers and official vehicles through. I had given instructions for the ore haulers to be backed up to the gate and their beds lowered as far as possible. They more than filled the broad entryway to the quarry. Daryl and I slipped into the quarry grounds along with twenty men and two women from the state police. The remaining officers stayed at the entrance to seal off any escape attempts.

We knew that we had to deal with Carl and Jeremy Haynes, Joe Wilson, Mrs. Haynes, and the three we had seen in the truck. We were heavily armed, not knowing what kind of weapons they had with them. I thought it might help if we could disable the big semi they had driven so I hurried to my SUV and retrieved my Benelli M4 semi-automatic shotgun. Quickly, I ejected the six buckshot shells in favor of six magnums with steel slugs—guaranteed to crack virtually any engine block or penetrate any bulletproof vest.

Slipping under the huge trucks that blocked their escape, twenty of us spread out around the quarry buildings. Max followed my cues, maintaining silence as Daryl, Dan, and I hid behind one of the rusted out sheds. Just ahead of us we could see the four locals joined with three from the truck's cab counting through the money—more than one million dollars fresh from the First National Bank of Memphis. They talked and joked as the suitcase of money was stowed in the rear of the cab. After this formality was completed the seven worked together to unload the truck and place the illicit goods onto pallets which would keep them off any wet floors. We moved into a position where we could observe and move forward with the arrests.

Using my radio I determined that all of us were in place so I called out, "STAY WHERE YOU ARE! THIS IS THE POLICE. WE HAVE YOU OUTNUMBERED AND SURROUNDED. MOVE TO THE OPEN AREA IN FRONT OF THE TRUCK WITH YOUR HANDS ON TOP OF YOUR HEADS. YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO COMPLY."

Of course, I never expected that they would. Instead, the three outsiders who turned out to be members of an infamous Mexican drug cartel, ran to get their AK-47's, shooting wildly in all directions. They were wearing vests, but that didn't bother me. I raised the Benelli, took aim and fired. A 12 gauge magnum shell has extra gunpowder that propels the heavy steel projectile at extremely high speed. Even if it failed to penetrate the vest it would surely break several ribs, rendering the perpetrator useless in any kind of a skirmish. I watched as the slug struck, blood gushing out of the man's back as he fell to the ground.

One of his partners climbed into the truck's cab and tried to start the engine. My next two shots were through the radiator and into the block. Steam poured through the holes as the slugs ripped through the copper tubing. I doubted that the truck would go far even if the exit wasn't blocked. As I watched, the state police fired perhaps a hundred shots into the cab and eliminated the driver from the battle. Max and I crawled off to the left as Daryl and Dan headed right around the truck in an effort to get better firing angles on the erstwhile drug dealers.

I couldn't believe my luck when Carl Haynes and his wife backed up to almost where Max and I stood. When I spoke it was barely a whisper. "Raise 'em, Haynes and don't try anything stupid. My dog will take you apart if I don't shoot you first." He dropped his weapon and raised his hands. I pulled him and Mrs. Haynes around the truck's trailer, securing their hands with vinyl wrist cuffs. After a quick pat down I passed them off to the state policewomen to be held away from the action. I learned later that a careful search of Mrs. Haynes turned up a detailed ledger showing the group's sales, profits, and offshore accounts of more than ten million dollars.

Now there were only three fugitives—Jeremy Haynes, Joe Wilson, and one of the truck drivers. There was sporadic firing, but mostly it was intended to locate targets. Max and I crept forward again, keeping low. We turned left once we had reached a group of drug-laden pallets. About twenty feet away, facing to our right were Joe Wilson and the remaining Mexican taking shelter behind some steel gears for a tall conveyor belt. I signaled Max to follow as I scooted further to my left in order to get behind them.

I was able to whisper their location into my radio once I had crawled behind a rusty steel cart. Once again I yelled, "IT'S OVER HAYNES. I'M BEHIND YOU AND THERE'S NO PLACE FOR YOU TO GO. GIVE IT UP WHILE YOU STILL CAN." Wilson and the Mexican looked quickly behind them while I fired my Colt Python over their heads. Wilson threw his weapon down, but the Mexican ran. I called into the radio not to shoot as Max instinctively took off after him. Haynes, seeing no alternative, ducked into the warehouse where they had planned to store the drugs. The Mexican had run all of thirty feet when 130 pounds of dog took him down. He lay on his stomach with Max's jaws around his neck when I walked up to him. Once I had him secured I stood him up and the state officers approached with Wilson also handcuffed. We retreated when Haynes fired two shots that flew barely over our heads.

I called out to him, telling him there was no place to go, but his response was less than encouraging. "FUCK YOU, CAHILL AND FUCK THAT NIGGER YOU HAVE WITH YOU." I was prepared for a long siege when Daryl told me he had an idea. After listening for a minute I told him to go ahead and try.

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