Death Blow

28

Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock eased into the chair at his small office in Third Platoon headquarters and relaxed. Good to be home again. It had been a start-and-stop trip via commercial air from Calcutta, India, and he was glad it was over. They arrived at Lindbergh Field in San Diego late last night. They found their luggage in the form of cardboard boxes containing their weapons without ammo and combat vests and personal gear. After they checked in at the equipment room there on the base, Murdock had given everyone a five-day liberty.

His boss, Commander Masciareli, top ass kicker of SEAL Team Seven’s 230 men, would chew him out for a week. Hell with him, the men needed some time off. They deserved it. Master Chief MacKenzie had met them and cut the orders at 0100 for them. Murdock had been up at five this morning for a two-mile run along Coronado’s beach. He had slept himself out on the five or six planes they had been on coming home. Now he stared at the stack of paperwork he had to do, which Master Chief MacKenzie had dropped on his desk last night.

Canzoneri had been taken directly to Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego’s Balboa Park. The emergency-room crew had examined his leg, did some quick surgery to repair one area and then bandaged it up and admitted him. The estimate was that he would be there a week before being returned to light duty.

Franklin’s left arm was checked, two stitches replaced ones that had popped loose, and he was bandaged and released to duty.

By 0930 Murdock had only started on his paperwork when he looked up and saw Senior Chief Will Dobler standing in the doorway. He wasn’t sure how long the chief had been there.

“Senior Chief, come in.” Murdock stood and held out his hand. They shook and Murdock pointed to the chair beside his desk.

“Senior Chief, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about what happened. I didn’t think the problem was that severe or I would have grounded you in a second.”

“Not your fault, Commander. It was all mine, and I have to live with that. I’ve had some time, but it’s going to take some more. I have to decide what I’m gong to do. I have to make a living. Navy is the only thing I know. I’m too damn old to be playing your kid games anymore. I’ve filed with Master Chief a request for transfer to one of the non-field jobs in the Team. I’m grounding myself, Commander. I hope you understand.”

Murdock nodded. He had hoped that this wouldn’t happen, but he was almost certain it would. Dobler was having trouble keeping up some days on their training runs and swims. At thirty-seven, he was by far the oldest man in the Platoon.

“I know how it is getting older in this game. I figure I have two, maybe three more years before I cash out. You’ll be missed in Third Platoon, you know that.”

“MacKenzie has a short list of three men he’s recommending to move in here. All three are in the same job in other platoons. Seems like everybody wants to get shot at.”

“Yes, I’ll have to get on that today. You know any of the three?”

“One of them, and he wouldn’t be my top pick.”

Neither man spoke for a moment, each reliving some action they had been in during past days.

“Has MacKenzie found a berth for you yet?”

“He’s working on it. He says there’s a cross-referencing spot open at the CIA in Washington, D.C. for a SEAL. Man who was there for two years just retired. Don’t know if I would like rubbing shoulders with those spooks.”

“Be a good berth for you, Dobler. Your combat, and your platoon action experience would be an eye opener for them. You’ve been there and done that. You’d be a top man for the spot. Has Masciareli done anything about it?”

“Don’t think so.”

“His word would help out a lot in D.C. I’ll bug him about it today.”

“Kids would have to change schools again.”

“True, but it would move you out of that house and the memories. Might be just the thing.”

Neither spoke again for a minute or two.

“You still have twenty days or so on your leave. You going to get away somewhere?”

“No sir. I’m spending all the time I can with my kids. We do something every day after homework. A show, a ride, go surfing, or swimming. I even went fishing with them at some lake.”

“Good. I’m going to call the top dog and urge him to recommend you for that referencing spot at CIA. Get out of here so you won’t hear the nice things I’m going to say about you.”

Senior Chief Dobler grinned for the first time. “Aye, aye, sir. I’m moving my butt. I’ll bug MacKenzie again. His coffee is better than yours, anyway.”

Murdock smiled when the chief left. There had been just a trace of the spark from the man that he knew. Maybe Dobler was starting to come out of his depression that must have wracked him after Nancy’s death. He reached for the phone to talk to his boss about Dobler.

The phone rang before he could pick it up.

“Third,” he said.

“And a good morning to you, Commander. You slipped over the Quarterdeck without my checking the polish on your shoes this morning.”

“Sorry, Master Chief, wasn’t thinking what I was doing. Just talked to Dobler. You in the process for our recommending him for that CIA cross-check spot?”

“That I am lad, sir. I talked to the commander. He’s with me on it. We’re putting together a package. I e-mailed Stroh not to let them fill the slot before they get our material on Dobe.”

“Good. Now about his replacement here.”

“You want to interview the three candidates this morning?”

“Are they ready?”

“They’ve been on standby since 0800.”

“Send them over an hour apart starting at 1000. You have any preference?”

“Me sir? I’m just a lowly master chief not fit to be making such officer-type decisions.”

“Yeah, right. And your mother washed your pants in her chowder. Who do you like best?”

“He’ll be the second man over. The first one is to sharpen your interview techniques. The best man is number two. But I didn’t say a word. Sir.”

“I hear you. Did DeWitt get his tail moving?”

“He went on a five day. Something about the high country around Denver.”

“Good, as far from water as he can get. Take care, Chief.” Murdock hung up and went back to the stack of paper on his desk. There must be a better way, but he hadn’t found it yet.

Detective Sergeant Sanchez pushed down in the front seat of the rented Chevy where he sat twenty yards down from Howard Anderson’s apartment. The man was in town. He had caught just a glimpse of him last night when he came to his place and then left almost at once before Sanchez could get to the door. Then Anderson had slammed through the sparse nighttime traffic at such a pace that Sanchez lost him before they made it to the bridge into San Diego. He was furious that the damned gringo could outdrive him when the man didn’t even know he was being followed. Sanchez went back to the apartment to wait through the night, but Anderson didn’t come back. Another two hours, and he was going back to Tijuana. This had been the closest he had come to the big American. Another two hours. Sanchez swore softly. He would get this gringo pig, it was an obsession now. He had to get him.

It was well after two o’clock in the morning when Howie Anderson banged on the back door of the El Gallo Colorado cantina. He kept banging with his fist and then with a chunk of wood he found nearby until someone opened the door.

One of the girls in a half-open robe, looked at him.

“Hey gringo, we closed.”

“You’re always open. Get the hell out of the way. Where’s Teresa?”

“She’s busy.”

“Same room?”

“Yes, busy. All-nighter.”

“I’ll throw the bum out. Got business, funny business.” He laughed. Then Howie hurried up to the second floor. Teresa always had the same room, number one. He tried the door. Locked. He pushed against it just a little with a shoulder slam and it popped open.

The light was on, but low. He surged into the room, saw Teresa with the long black hair on the bed, naked with a nude man beside her. Howie grabbed the sleeping man’s arm and pulled him off the bed. He swore in Spanish and jumped up ready to fight. But when he looked up at Howie’s six feet three inches and 240 pounds, he backed off. He put on his pants as Howie glowered at him.

Teresa woke up and recognized Howie. She told the man in Spanish he better leave. He yelled in Spanish and hurried out the door. Teresa sat up and stared at Howie. He liked the way her bare tits bounced and rolled.

“What are you doing here?”

“Celebrating. I’m still alive. I want me some good hot pussy and I know where to get it.”

“Not tonight. You heard of Mad Dog Sanchez, Tijuana police?”

“No, who’s he?”

“Toughest, most vicious cop in town. He was here looking for you. Something about a dead dopehead.”

Howie who had killed a six pack of beer driving to TJ sobered up in a rush. “Some cop is looking for me, by name?”

“Yes. I told him I didn’t know you.”

“Why’s he looking for me?”

“Some big-time dope supplier got himself shot twice in the head with a small-caliber weapon. He thinks you did it. This Mad Dog Sanchez is the worst of the cops around here. He gets more confessions than anybody. Also, more of his suspects die during questioning than anyone else’s.”

“Why didn’t you tell me he was asking about me?”

“I called you twice, no answer both time.”

“Been out of the country.”

“You better get back across the border. He catch you down here you’re turkey meat. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, Teresa. I know. Hell, while I’m here…” He unzipped his fly. Teresa caught his hand.

“No. It isn’t safe for you here, not even for five minutes. You better go right now.”

“Hell, I been through a lot lately—” He stopped, zipped up his fly and swore. “Fuck it, I’ll go north and then head for Arizona. He’ll never find me in Arizona.” Howie stood there a moment, his alcohol-fuzzed brain spinning. “Wait a God-damned minute. Why am I gonna run just because some pussy tells me to? Hell, why should I be afraid of some little greaser cop? I ain’t afraid of no cop.” He laughed, unzipped his fly again and dropped his pants, then his shorts. He pushed Teresa back on the bed and dropped on top of her.

“Hell, I ain’t wasting a drive all the way down here just to get pushed out the door by some damned greaser detective.”

“Howie. I’m serious. Hanging around here could get you killed.”

“Look at me, pretty woman. I’m shaking in my boots. I’m so scared I can’t get it up. Like shit. Look at this dandy. He’s ready to get to work.”

“Hell, I warned you. Sanchez has checked me three times now, looking for you.”

“So let him come.”

An hour later, Howie had drifted off to sleep when the door with it’s lock broken eased open. Sanchez grinned. The other girls had agreed, this was Anderson, the gringo Teresa knew, who Juan Lopez knew. The American lay on his back, hands over his head. He was a big one. Sanchez took a lead-filled sap from his pocket. He hit Anderson’s genitals first. The blow brought a wail of pain from the gringo who sat up. The second blow slammed hard on the big American’s head and he flopped down unconscious half off the bed.

Teresa heard the cry and jumped out of bed on the other side and scurried out the door. Sanchez didn’t need her anymore. He always knew where to find her. He was more interested in Anderson.

Sanchez knew how to use the sap. He had swung it dozens of times and knew how hard to hit a man’s head to knock him out and how hard to kill him. Anderson would wake up soon. The cop used plastic riot cuffs to bind Anderson’s wrists and ankles where he lay on the bed. He found a glass half full of whisky on the night stand. He threw the liquid into Anderson’s face.

The big SEAL came awake screeching in pain and frustration.

“What the hell. My hands? Who kicked me in the balls. What’s going on here?” Anderson shook his head to clear it, then slowly focused on Sanchez standing beside the bed, his Glock pistol out and aimed at Anderson’s head.

“Howard Anderson?”

“Hell no, I’m Regis Philbin. What the hell are the tie strips for?”

“To keep you in control, Anderson. You’re a wanted killer. I have to be careful.”

“You a cop?”

“Right, and I have you for murdering Raymundo Cuchi Hernandez in cold blood in his apartment.”

“Proof, you bastard, it takes proof to arrest somebody.”

“Not in Mexico, gringo bastard. You’re going inside for a long, long time.”

Howie had been in some tight spots but nothing like this. Maybe the little detective did have some proof. He couldn’t take the chance with a Mexican jail. This cop had been in a rush and had cinched up his hands in front of Howie. Bad move. Howie sat there slack jawed, head down, evidently broken and despondent.

“Look at me, gringo. Look at me as I shoot you as we struggled in this whore house.”

Howie didn’t move. Sanchez pushed in closer, the Glock now off at an angle he was so close. His head was inches from Howie’s face. Howie exploded his two-handed fist upward jolting into the cop’s windpipe then on up into his chin blasting him backward. Sanchez was unconscious before he hit the floor.

Howie rolled to the floor, groaned at the pain in his testicles, and found his pants. He pulled out a three-inch knife, and cut his hands and feet lose from the plastic. Then he grabbed the Glock pistol still in the cop’s hand before he checked the small man’s throat for a pulse. He had one, faint, but it was there. Howie dressed quickly.

Teresa looked in the door. “Praise Mother Mary and all the saints, you’re safe.” She looked at Sanchez. “Is he dead?”

“No, and I better get out of here. You didn’t see me. I was never here. Make any of the girls who saw me understand this. I’ll carry Sanchez into the alley and dump him where somebody will find him. He won’t be able to prove he was inside, or that he saw me, let alone arrested me. Go now and talk to the girls. What time is it?”

“Almost four o’clock.”

“Good, it’s still dark.” Howie hoisted the small Tijuana cop over his shoulder and carried him down the steps and into the alley. Halfway down he dumped him, made sure he was breathing and had a pulse.

“Robbery,” he whispered. “Yeah he was mugged and robbed.” Howie took the Glock, the cop’s billfold and wrist watch, but left his police ID badge. It would be put down as a robbery.

A mile from the border checkpoint, Howie threw the cop’s pistol out the window and his billfold after taking out two U.S. hundred dollar bills and two thousand in pesos.

Now he really was going to go to Flagstaff, Arizona. He’d stop by his apartment for some clothes and some more cash and his ATM card, then he would be moving. There was only a slim chance that this cop knew where he lived. He wasn’t listed in the phone book. The SEALs would never give out his home address, even if this Mad Dog Sanchez did learn that he was a SEAL. Hell no, the cop couldn’t be that good. Howie figured he’d take his five days liberty in Flag and then get back to work with the SEALs.