Targets Down Read online

  Lydia exited the Mustang as Ben pulled his car to the side of the road, parking near a large tree whose low-hanging branches almost concealed the Chrysler.

  A tall, lean man with dark chocolate skin, Ben Hobbs played basketball in college in the mid-eighties. Still athletic, he bounded across the street to Lydia's car.

  "Glad I turned around. I couldn't see inside the car but wanted to make sure no one was stranded. Course, wanted to be careful, thought I might find a couple attempting to violate the Seventh Commandment."

  Lydia smiled as the mist fell gently on her shoulder-length hair. "I'm glad you took a chance. I think I got some bad gas this evening. My husband insists on brand names, but in the interest of good stewardship, I went cheap, and it may have cost me."

  Ben laughed. "Maybe I can help. I know God wants to reward the wise steward."

  Just as Lydia was about to hand him the keys to the Mustang, she spied a dark Dodge Ram Mega-Cab stop short a hundred yards from her location. She knew it was a Dodge because a similar model sat in her driveway at home. It was her husband's surveillance vehicle.

  Three men exited the truck, grabbed a large limp object from the bed of the pickup, and heaved it over the side of the road. The men quickly returned to the truck and sped off, now heading toward Lydia and Ben, almost clipping them as they stood by the side of the road.

  "Crazy kids," barked Ben.

  Before Lydia could respond, the truck skidded to a stop. The driver threw the vehicle into reverse and raced back toward Lydia's car, tires spinning on the wet, slick pavement, water spitting in all directions. Three men jumped from the truck.

  The driver was short and powerful. His head was shaved, and Lydia could see a tattoo on the left side of his neck. The other two were much taller, one muscular but both menacing, wearing dark knit caps, which they immediately pulled down over their faces as they exited the muddied pickup. Both arms of the largest of the three were covered in tattoos. The other wore a long-sleeve black Harley-Davidson shirt which would have concealed any markings.

  Initially paralyzed with fear, Lydia stood by as the men moved with ferocious speed toward Benjamin Hobbs. She then screamed as the three men attacked and began to pummel Ben with their fists and feet. She watched as the minister attempted to fend them off, but following a blow to the windpipe, he quickly collapsed. The kicks were made with blinding speed; steel-toed Doc Marten boots their weapons of choice.

  Ben curled his body into a fetal position, unable to protest, craving a breath, and attempting to ward off the blows.

  Lydia's pleas for the men to stop fell on deaf ears; they evidenced no intention of stopping. She tried to intervene, grabbing the driver by the arm, but he used his free arm landing a devastating punch to her face, shattering her nose.

  The men were too quick, too powerful, too many. When the driver's left foot landed a well-placed strike to the head, Ben's body went limp.

  The brutal, random, and spontaneous assault took less than a minute. The largest of the three men grabbed a silenced 9 mm from his waistband and pumped two shots into the minister's dead body. He then walked over to Lydia and fired two more rounds.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Eight men and two women, all casually dressed, surrounded the large table centered in the Joint Terrorism Task Force conference room. Dwayne Washington stood at the far end. His shaved head and recently cultivated goatee earned him the nickname Shaft because of his resemblance to Samuel L. Jackson's character in the movie. The Georgetown graduate joined the Bureau after completing a master's degree program in international studies and brought the requisite credibility to his position as the supervisory special agent for a diverse collection of law enforcement professionals.

  Composed primarily of FBI agents with floating representatives from the Department of Homeland Security, DEA, the Los Angeles Sheriff's Office, and the Los Angeles Police Department, the squad was created a year earlier. Their mission statement looked simple enough on the written page but more difficult to implement: identify the criminal activities of terrorists and those who supported terrorism, whether foreign or domestic. Individuals selected for the assignment were successful agents weaned on investigating traditional street crimes—bank robbery, kidnapping, extortion, and drugs. They were used to "runnin' and gunnin'" not "snoopin' and poopin'," preparing reports for some administrative black hole never to be read again. They enjoyed the chase, the confrontation, and the ultimate conviction. Their successes were public and, more often than not, exploited by Washington bureaucrats.

  "Okay, let's get started," said Dwayne. "Steve is passing out the ops order."

  As Steve Barnett walked around the room passing out a multi-page operations order detailing the night's agenda, one of the agents whispered under his breath, "Kiss up," just as Steve passed. Steve swatted the older agent in the back of his head, and everyone joined in nervous laughter. Any buy-bust was cause for preemptive alarm, and often during the briefings the tension was as thick as a San Francisco fog. Tonight was no different. Midnight ops were a blessing and a curse. The same darkness concealing the agents could just as easily hide the criminal intent of those playing for the other side.

  "Matt, you want to fill us in," said Dwayne.

  "Yeah," said Matt, "Sorry about the hour. I don't like late- night drug deals any more than the rest of you, but I couldn't convince Tweedledum to do it any earlier. My guess is the precursors showed up this morning, and he knew it would take most of the day to cook a new batch. Whatever we're buying should be fresh."

  "Just make sure it's evidentiary in nature. I'd hate to miss Leno cause your boy's shooting blanks," said a smiling Danny Garcia, a sergeant with LAPD who was leaning back balancing himself on two legs of his chair.

  "Bobby Himmler is a wannabe neo-Nazi who wasn't smart enough to even be considered for the Aryan Brotherhood during his most recent prison stint. He hung out with the AB while away on the government-funded vacation but never made it into the inner circle. He's weak. If he's fighting a big-boned woman, bet the broad. He's been out about a year and is back slinging crystal meth. I picked up a sample earlier in the week, and it graded out almost pure. As a drug dealer this guy is for real. As a neo-Nazi we aren't sure. He has a prior narcotics conviction so, if he delivers tonight, he's looking at a double-up."

  Dwayne interjected, "For you locals new to the task force, under the federal sentencing guidelines a prior drug conviction gets you twice the punishment with a subsequent slam."

  "So our boy is looking at twenty at Chez Fed once he produces the product," said Matt.

  Somebody whistled and added, "I love those federal guidelines."

  Matt continued, "Bobby brags about his dealings with various neo-Nazi groups so we're hoping an arrest will provide him suitable incentive to join our side."

  "From everything I've read, Bobby's not well respected in those circles because of his drug dealings," said Danny Garcia.

  "You're right, Danny. He's more accepted in the biker community, but he can pass if he has to. If he doesn't work out for us, we'll pass him along to someone working outlaw motorcycle gangs, or we'll send him on another all-expense-paid trip courtesy of the Bureau of Prisons. It's a win-win for us, but we prefer his cooperation," said Dwayne.

  "There's a cowboy bar in North Hollywood called Saddle-Up. The address is in the ops order. That's where I met him the last time. He's comfortable there. We did the sample in my pickup truck so I don't see a problem doing it the same way this time. But be flexible; he may want to move it into the bar."

  "If he does, I'm out," said Dwayne, "I think that place still has a 'No Coloreds Allowed' on the front door."

  "You ever hear of Darius Rucker?" said Steve.

  "Yeah, Hootie and the Blowfish," said Dwayne.

  "Man, we're in the twenty-first century. Hootie was hot when Bill Clinton was servicing White
House interns. Darius has gone country. You and your people are welcome in almost any redneck bar in the Valley," said Steve with a broad smile.

  "Dwayne's right; it's pretty white," said Matt. "But Dwayne, if you hear shots fired, you're welcome to join in the fray. I will do my best to keep it in the parking lot. I'm only picking up five ounces at $800 apiece so I'm not sure he'll think this is worth a rip. He believes my buyers are looking for a regular score each week so I want to keep it simple and so will he. Besides I won't be able to get an iPod-quality recording if all the negotiations are done with country and western music blasting in the background."

  Someone asked, "Will he be alone?"

  "He came alone the last time. I assume he'll be by himself tonight. It's not like he's running with a crew. I seldom trust the word of a convicted felon, but he said he wouldn't be bringing any friends, and I promised him no new faces."

  "Yeah, but you're lying. Maybe he is too," came a comment from the back of the room.

  "Good point," said Matt as he sat down.

  "We're set to go at 11:30 so everybody be on station within the hour," said Dwayne who finished up the briefing with the admin details and the obligatory review of the FBI shooting policy. Even in the FBI the lawyers always had the last word.

  Matt remained as everyone casually filed out of the conference room. With the hint of a smirk on his face, he prepared to enter his element, the dark side where shadow warriors love to dwell. He was humming "Folsom Prison Blues" as he opened the black plastic case containing the back-up miniature recording device. He inserted the batteries and checked to make sure it was operational. Too many times the devices failed, and he was taking no chances this evening. Once he was satisfied the device worked, he strapped it on and prepared for the next adrenaline rush.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Flashing red and blue lights lit up the night. Three LAPD units from the North Hollywood Division were on the scene, and the homicide detectives, summoned from their homes, were only a few minutes out. A patrol sergeant requested an illumination truck which was in route. The truck would provide enough candle power to rival a night game at Dodger Stadium. The crime scene would then be exposed, and investigators would soon begin pouring over every inch of the area. Yellow tape already surrounded a large area encompassing the Mustang and the deceased body. What little traffic frequented the mountain road was rerouted.

  A teenage couple, well past the girl's curfew, came upon the scene almost fifteen minutes after the attack. As the teen's car rounded the bend, the headlights swept the road. The driver and his passenger immediately focused on Benjamin Hobbs's limp body lying in the road, his head resting in a large pool of darkened blood. The seventeen-year-old high school football player slammed on his brakes, and on the rain-slick pavement his vehicle pulled left away from the minister, coming to a halt on the other side of the road. The girl screamed as her boyfriend jumped from the car to survey the scene. Within seconds he discovered Lydia unconscious behind her Mustang, lying in the loose gravel bordering the blacktop, her body clinging to life. Both bodies were soaked from the heavy mist that would wash away what little evidence might be available to the crime scene technicians.

  The football player stayed with the bodies while his girlfriend drove his car to the fire station just east of Laurel Canyon almost three miles away.

  The paramedics responded immediately, and the police arrived on the scene within minutes of their call.

  The first officers on the scene identified both Lydia and the minister from their respective driver's licenses and vehicle registrations. There was nothing on either of the two victims to link them or to identify Lydia as the wife of an FBI agent.

  By the time the homicide detectives arrived, the ambulance had taken Lydia to the nearest trauma center, and she had yet to regain consciousness. Without her help it was doubtful even the best investigators would be able to piece together the crime scene puzzle. It didn't take much experience to determine Benjamin Hobbs was savagely beaten and shot but a motive remained unclear.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Matt drove the 2009 Ford F-150 FX2 Sport truck into the parking lot of the Saddle-Up. The vehicle with a dark shadow-gray exterior was forfeited to the FBI a year earlier, seized from a Long Beach meth dealer who used the truck to transport three kilograms of the white crystalline product. The black leather-trimmed captain's chairs provided all the comfort Matt needed to negotiate tonight's deal. His appreciation for stupid criminals with good taste grew with each forfeited piece of property now at his disposal.

  The vehicle's seizure was the result of a slick law enforcement cooperative effort. A court-authorized FBI wiretap on the conversations of a member of the Mongols motorcycle gang identified the pickup's owner as a conduit between the bikers and the Aryan Brotherhood at Folsom State Prison. The FBI arranged for a Highway Patrol unit to pull the truck over on a bogus traffic violation. Knowing in advance the driver had two outstanding warrants for failure to appear on several speeding tickets, the driver was arrested. The drugs were "discovered" during a routine inventory of the vehicle. The FBI successfully "walled off" the subsequent seizure of the drugs without disclosing the wiretap which successfully ran for several more months.

  The Bureau's top tech agents retooled the interior of the pickup, concealing hidden cameras and microphones making the front seat a recording studio almost as perfect as the ones used in Nashville to record the songs Matt blasted on the Shaker 1000 audio sound system. Tonight Matt was featuring Charlie Daniels and planned to have "Uneasy Rider" playing in the background as Bobby Himmler entered the truck to begin negotiating the next step in his quest to lose his freedom. Matt would provide a clue. The song was cued to the line, "He's an undercover agent for the FBI."

  The parking lot on this weeknight was about half full, and Matt parked toward the back, away from the other vehicles, giving his surveillance agents a clear shot at observing the imminent transaction. Although the parking area was dark, a lone light at the far end of the lot would provide enough illumination to silhouette Matt and Himmler, highlighting the activities inside the cab of the truck.

  Dwayne and Steve Barnett were northeast of the location just on the other side of a six-foot block wall separating the Saddle-Up from a run-down office building. The other agents were placed strategically throughout the lot and in front of the bar observing the comings and goings of the patrons.

  Although the squad surrounded the venue, Matt wasn't about to delegate his safety to others. Personal safety was a personal responsibility. Too many times while undercover the axiom became a reality: when seconds count, help is minutes away.

  Danny Garcia had the point and was parked just down the street from the main entrance to the bar. Even though drug dealers aren't known for their punctuality, Danny surprised the cover team when he reported Bobby Himmler was pulling into the driveway at precisely 11:30 pm, as promised. Himmler's Buick Rivera with gray primer and a broken front headlight made him an easy spot, and Danny first caught a glimpse of the vehicle when it rounded the corner at the end of the block.

  "He's alone," reported Danny.

  Matt spotted Himmler as soon as he pulled into the parking lot and watched the drug dealer circling the lot, carefully looking into every vehicle, obviously trying to detect any law enforcement activity. Matt's men were professionals and were well concealed. Apparently, when Himmler was satisfied the lot was clear, he parked his car next to Matt's truck and hopped into the cab.

  "I thought maybe you didn't see me," said Matt turning down the radio after providing the clue. "I saw you circle a couple of times and almost flashed my headlights."

  "Just checking the lot. I learned my lesson. I'm not getting caught again," said Himmler in a quick-paced staccato voice.

  "Again? You been away?" asked Matt feigning surprise.

  "Yeah, did a nickel. I had an old lady who lied. She said
she wasn't coming back until Sunday. When she came home Saturday night, she found someone else keeping her side of the bed warm. Turns out she had a friend on some drug task force, and she made a phone call."

  "Ouch!" Matt laughed. "The wrath of a scorned female."

  The pencil thin meth addict ran his fingers through his greasy, long brown hair. It was obvious Himmler sampled his latest cooking achievement. He was jerking, twitching, and more nervous than when they dealt earlier in the week. This apparent anxiety was not the result of tonight's larger transaction but could only be attributed to an addict who recently used. Matt watched Himmler's eyes as they darted back and forth, and his hands continually scratching his dry skin.

  "I learned my lesson. Can't be too careful in this line of work. Wanna make sure neither one of us is sucking heat," said the agitated dealer followed by a nervous lick of his lips.

  "I know I'm clean, but I like a careful man. It makes me want to deal with you again and again. Assuming you can put it together this time," said Matt.

  "I can put it together. Just make sure you hold up your end of the bargain. You bring Mr. Green?" asked Himmler.

  "Four thousand in old bills, just like you asked, but I need to see the product first."

  "We're not playin' those games. It's always the same with you people. I've got the product. Show me the money, or I'm taking my business inside. Everybody knows Bobby Himmler's got the best ice in town. I can move it all tonight. So get on or get movin'." Himmler's voice deepened, and there was a hard edge to his demand.

  "Bright boy like you wanna piece it out all evening? Go right ahead, if that's your play. Doesn't seem like the move of a careful man. All you gotta do is show me the product, and you've got it sold in one move, one cash transaction. Five-o may be workin' the Saddle-Up this evening, and your next cash transaction might be coming up with enough bail money to spring you from county."