The Killing Point (An Alexa Chase Suspense Thriller—Book 4)

CHAPTER ONE A+ Storage, Maricopa Freeway, just south of Phoenix, Arizona 11 p.m. The thing that U.S. Deputy Marshal Alexa Chase hated the most about gunfights was the waiting. Once the bullets started flying, adrenaline and a laser-sharp focus kept you from thinking; but in those long minutes before it all kicked off, minutes that seemed to stretch for days, you couldn’t help but think about everything that could go wrong. Because it had all gone wrong so many times before. Alexa crouched behind a small prefab warehouse, sweat trickling beneath her Kevlar helmet and vest in the warm Arizona night. In her hands she gripped her Glock 9mm. Next to her, in similar attire and representing the FBI on this raid, crouched her partner Special Agent Stuart Barrett. He held an M4 assault rifle like most other members of the team. Behind them were half a dozen SWAT team members. Just ten yards ahead, crouching behind another warehouse, were another six SWAT team members. They had formed up in a large complex of warehouses, rented to various small businesses and trucking companies, or anyone else who was willing to pay good money for convenient storage and no oversight. The owner claimed no knowledge of what was being stored in Warehouse Eight just a couple of buildings away from where Alexa and her colleagues had assembled. But of course he would. It was in his best interest not to know what happened in his storage facility, and even if he did, it was certainly in his best interest not to tell. Otherwise, he’d end up staked out in the middle of the desert with his eyes and tongue gouged out. Because Warehouse Eight was rented by the Mexican d**g g**g Los Diablos Auténticos, “The Real Devils,” as opposed to the older, mostly white motorcycle g**g called Los Diablos. The two gangs attacked each other on sight. Los Diablos Auténticos ran most of the crystal meth and h****n in central Arizona. Warehouse Eight was where they stored it under the name of a fake delivery company, and tonight was the night when their regional dealers came to pick up their packets for the month. There were at least ten guys in there, all armed and most of them having probably killed before. There had been a string of unsolved murders in the state that investigators had linked to the g**g. Los Diablos Auténticos would not go down quietly. Alexa looked over to the SWAT team leader at the corner of the warehouse opposite. He held up three fingers of his gloved hand. Three. Two. One. They moved out, silent save for the crunch of boots on hardpack soil and the soft rustle of equipment. Most of the SWAT team members carried shotguns or assault rifles. She’d been offered one as well, but she felt more comfortable with her Glock, and, this close, a 9mm would do just as well as a shotgun blast. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but of course it would. Stuart ran just by her side, an assault rifle in his easy grip. Two tours of duty in Iraq made him better with that weapon than anyone else on the raid. He moved well too, keeping his place on point with a precision that looked casual but was anything but. Up ahead she saw the warehouse with a large number eight painted on the gable. A double-wide garage door was closed and padlocked. A smaller office door stood next to it, no doubt locked too. Beyond the warehouse, the other wing of the SWAT raid emerged from the darkness. She saw no one else. Los Diablos Auténticos hadn’t posted a guard. Cocky and stupid, like most d**g gangs. Of course, no one but law enforcement would be cocky and stupid enough to come breaking in on their distribution meeting. A hulking member of the SWAT team came up to the door carrying a red steel cylinder the guys affectionately called “the big red key.” A battering ram. Several of his team members covered him. Alexa got into her position, just to the left of the door. She let out a long, slow breath. Almost there. The captain of the SWAT team, up close to the guy with the battering ram, held up three fingers. Three. Two. One. The officer swung back the battering ram and hit the door, right next to the lock. There was a loud bang, and the door flew open. “POLICE! GET FACE DOWN ON THE FLOOR WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!” The SWAT team rushed in. Just as Alexa crossed the threshold, the first shots rang out. Beyond the door was a small office. One civilian lay face down on the floor, a SWAT team member with a knee on his back and already cuffing him. Alexa only saw that for an instant as the SWAT team poured past and into a large warehouse area. She ducked low and to the left as more shots rang through the large interior, echoing loudly off the metal ceiling. Her first good look at the scene was one of utter confusion. Rows of wooden crates stood neatly stacked on pallets, obscuring the view of most of the warehouse interior. At the front of the warehouse, near the door to the office, was a large folding metal table covered in shrink-wrapped packets. The SWAT team fanned out on either side of the office doorway, shouting and advancing on the g**g. Some of the young men had obeyed orders and gotten down on the floor. Some ran for a back door that, if they had been thinking clearly, they should have known was already guarded. Several more were firing back from behind the crates. A g**g member blared away with an UZI. A cop fell. Stuart took him out with a single shot to the head. Alexa aimed at another young tough firing a Glock much like hers. She hit him in the shoulder. A flurry of bullets from her fellow officers made him duck out of sight. The SWAT team advanced. Keep up the momentum. Keep them retreating when they had nowhere to retreat. The natural response would be to flee back to the safety of the office and fire at the g**g from there, but that would lead to a standoff that could last hours, and the wall between the office and the warehouse was probably cheap drywall that wouldn’t provide cover anyway. The safest way was forward. She darted across the open space in front of the table, a few yards that felt like ten miles. SWAT team members rushed alongside to her left and right. Stuart was close, but she didn’t keep track of where. She focused only on the opening between two stacks of crates where she had seen the wounded g**g member disappear. She kept her pistol leveled at that spot. The gunfire continued as the SWAT team cleared the other aisles. She looped around the table and made it the last few steps to her target. She got behind the crate, splintered by her and her companions’ shots, ducked low, and swung around. No one. Just a trail of blood leading away and then around another stack of crates. The pallets of crates were not stacked in solid lines, but set apart from one another in uneven clusters. Alexa had entered a maze. Cursing to herself, she paced forward, a guy from the SWAT team just to her left. Side by side, they barely had enough room to maneuver. They got to the next set of pallets. He swung left, Alexa right. No one. Shots and shouts echoed all around. Some of Los Diablos Auténticos had decided to make a last stand. She swung left around the next stack of crates. A bullet snapped into the wood next to her head. Alexa didn’t see where from, because right in front of her was one of the g**g members, blasting away at an unseen opponent to his left with an UZI. Alexa raised her g*n to fire. Just then the g**g member’s UZI clicked empty, and the man turned. Alexa recognized Jeronimo Cortez, the leader of Los Diablos Auténticos. His face registered shock. “FREEZE!” she shouted over a flurry of gunfire. If he didn’t drop that g*n immediately, she would fire. She didn’t have time for negotiations. Something in her eyes must have signaled that, because one of the most dangerous g**g members in the Southwest dropped his g*n and raised his hands. “DOWN ON THE FLOOR. YOU KNOW THE ROUTINE.” The guy had a rap sheet so long that Alexa had stopped reading halfway through. He got face down on the floor with his hands behind his head like a pro. The firing started to die down, moving more distant as the g**g members retreated to the back of the warehouse. There was a flurry of gunfire right at the back for a second, cutting off short. Alexa figured they must have opened the back door and gotten the police’s little surprise. No more shots came. Now all she could hear through the ringing in her ears were groans and shouted commands. Alexa checked the coast was clear, put a knee on the small of Jeronimo Cortez’s back and zip tied his wrists. “Jeronimo Cortez, I am arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to distribute narcotics, possession of narcotics, possession of an illegal firearm, first degree—” “Let’s make a deal,” he said, cutting off her long list of charges. “Make it with the judge.” “No time.” The man sounded desperate, and about more than his current situation. A shot rang out. A flurry of shots replied. A man screamed something in Spanish. “What do you mean there’s no time?” “You want me for a murder rap, right? Jorge Cantinflas. Jim Yonker. Juan Garcia. Weston Oak.” “And probably a few more.” “Plenty more you don’t know about. I can lead you to the bodies.” Alexa glanced around again to check she was safe. All she saw was a SWAT team member hauling off a g**g member. Someone shouted, “All clear!” Alexa looked down at the g**g leader, who craned his neck to look up at her. “You’re leading me to bodies we don’t know about? Why would you do that?” she asked. “Because I didn’t kill none of them. But I can help you catch the guy who did.” His voice wavered as he spoke, at odds with his demeanor a moment before. “Tell it to the judge,” Alexa grumbled, hauling him to his feet. She’d heard a lot of bull from prisoners. They all tried to pull something. “Orlando Fuerte. You’ll find him just off of mile 48 of State Road 78 near Bouse. Shot through the head two days ago. If you’ve been watching me like I’m sure you have, you know I was here in Phoenix. Haven’t been out of the city in two weeks. Go find him, and then we’ll talk.” Alexa stared at him. She had never seen such openness in a detainee before. Or such desperation. His eyes widened further, and his voice shook. “Go find him. Please. I got more to tell you.” Please? Her partner Stuart came jogging up. “Thank God you’re safe!” Alexa said. He grinned. “Same to you.” He looked at Cortez. “Wow! Looks like you caught the big fish.” “No,” she muttered. “No, I don’t think we’ve caught the big fish at all.”