Injustice for all

47

Special Agent Mo Rider felt his adrenaline surge as the UH-60 Black Hawk banked and began its descent into the valley below. It was just before dawn. There was enough light to see, but the sun hadn’t yet climbed over the mountain peaks to the east. As the wind whistled and the blades beat like war drums, Rider was thankful that someone up the chain at the Department of Justice had finally listened.

Through the network of informants he’d developed in more than twenty years with the DEA, Rider had been able to gather enough information to convince his superiors that if they committed the assets, they’d get their man. Satellite time had been approved, which was a rarity in the mountains of East Tennessee, and the images they relayed had confirmed the informants’ information. The patch was there. Their man was there.

Two helicopters had been assigned and had arrived from Fort Campbell, Kentucky, at five that morning. They were equipped with state-of-the-art thermal-imaging capabilities. And now nineteen men-seven FBI agents, eleven DEA agents, and Sheriff Bates from Washington County-were about to rock Rafael Ramirez’s world. Each of them wore a black Kevlar helmet and vest, black utilities, and black boots. Each carried the weapon of his choice.

Rider had both planned the mission and conducted the preraid briefing. He was confident every man knew his job. They knew exactly where the Mexicans were sleeping. Rider even knew which space on the tent floor was occupied by Ramirez.

The choppers came in low and fast, one on each side of the small campsite. The Mexicans were just beginning to scramble from the tents when the pilot pulled the nose into the air and dropped the skids onto the deck. Rider launched himself from the door and ran straight toward Ramirez’s tent. He was carrying a sawed-off Beretta semiautomatic twelve-gauge shotgun. There was no time for taking careful aim on this mission. If he had to use the weapon, it’d be point and shoot.

Rider could hear the agents behind him shouting, ordering the Mexicans to get on the ground. A man ran from Ramirez’s tent, tripped, and fell to the ground. Two agents were on him before he could get back to his feet. Another man suddenly appeared in the opening of Ramirez’s tent. He was carrying a pistol in his right hand.

Rider stopped in his tracks. It was Ramirez. The scar was unmistakable.

“Drop it!” Rider screamed. The Mexican hesitated.

“Drop the weapon!”

Ramirez’s eyes tightened. The pistol started to come up, and Rider pulled the trigger. The shotgun roared, Ramirez’s right leg jerked backward, and he fell to the ground on his face. Rider stepped quickly to Ramirez and tossed the pistol away while two more agents entered the tent. Rider pulled Ramirez’s hands behind his back, pulled a pair of handcuffs from a pouch on his web belt, and tightened them securely on the Mexican’s wrists.

“I should have blown your fucking head off,” Rider said, and he meant it. Rider knew Ramirez was a violent sociopath, and he believed him to be directly or indirectly responsible for at least a dozen murders, but the two that stuck in Rider’s craw were the murders of Katie Dean’s aunt and her son. And now, according to Sheriff Bates, Ramirez had been involved in Katie’s murder. Bates had only circumstantial proof and had told Rider he didn’t think Ramirez would ever be convicted of the murder, but Ramirez didn’t know that. Ramirez also didn’t know how far Rider was willing to go to get him to talk. He was about to find out.

Rider moved to Ramirez’s side and knelt. He placed his boot on the bloody crater in Ramirez’s thigh. The Mexican moaned.

“It looks like you’ll live,” Rider said. “That is unless you don’t talk to me.” He leaned close to Ramirez’s ear. “Now I swear to God, asshole, if you don’t tell me exactly what I want to know, I’ll stake you out over there and leave you for the animals.”