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She set them in motion, then glanced to the road and then back to Gabe. Then to the road. They had gotten away with it. She grabbed a breath of icy air.
“You missed our turn when he stopped us. Turn around. And get us out of here before he stops you again.”
Selena swung them around and caught a blur as Gabe flashed by her driver’s side window. Then he was behind her, hands on hips as he watched her taillights.
Just keep going.
“Uh-oh,” said her father, peeking at the side mirror.
Selena looked back to see Gabe had returned to the place where she had parked. He was studying the ground.
“He’s spotted my tracks,” said her father. “Drive faster.”
Chapter Two (#ulink_48ff9200-61d6-5f7e-8412-89c3fc204f0c)
Gabe Cosen watched Selena go and then returned to the tracks. The snow had started again and he knew that this was his best chance to get a good read. Like all of the men in his family, he had learned to read sign, which meant he could interpret the tracks of animals and men. He was adequate for an Apache, but his younger brothers, Kino and Clay, were much better.
The prints were from a large individual wearing moccasins. That was not unheard of, but most folks wore their tribe’s traditional foot gear only for hunting, ceremonies and dance competitions. The rest of the time they wore boots. He crouched beside the tracks and guessed at the person’s weight—less than two hundred pounds—from the place where the person had slipped en route to the front of the truck. Who had been in the cab with Selena and why didn’t that person want him to know?
His first thought was that Selena had found someone else. The white-hot fury at that prospect surprised him enough that he lost his balance and had to put a hand down to keep from toppling over. His break in concentration left the mark of his glove in the snow.
He’d know, wouldn’t he? If she had a date or was dating? The community was small and he kept closer tabs on Selena’s movements than he cared for her to know.
The second possibility for her unknown passenger broke through the mental fog he always felt around Selena and struck him like a rock slide. He stood and spun. The road was empty now. She had a good head start. He ran back to his unit. How long after the anklet alarm was triggered would he be notified? Someone from the Department of Corrections would have to call. They were monitoring her father, Frasco Dosela, or they were supposed to be.
He reached his unit as his phone rang. He would have sent the call to voice mail, but he saw from the caller ID that his uncle was calling. Luke Forrest was his father’s half brother, an FBI field agent and he was also Black Mountain Apache.
Gabe wondered if his uncle’s call was personal or business. He climbed into his unit. His wiper blades beat intermittently against the fine, powdery snow that continued to float down onto the windshield like confectioners’ sugar. Gabe swiped his finger over the screen, taking the call.
“Dagot’ee, Uncle,” Gabe said, using the Apache greeting. “What’s up?” Gabe flipped the phone call to his unit so he could talk while driving. Then he took off after Selena.
“Chief,” said his uncle, using his title instead of his first name. That meant this was a business call. Gabe didn’t have a lot of interaction with the Feds. Mostly he dealt with state police and occasionally the district attorney. But these were troubled times, and he had more business than he and his twelve-man force could handle.
His uncle sounded rushed. “Field Agent Walker and I are seeking permission to enter the rez.”
“You mean your new partner?” Gabe searched for Selena’s box truck. She must be speeding, because she’d vanished like smoke.
“That’s right. But I don’t think she will be my partner for long. That one is a firecracker. She’ll be in DC by June.”
Uncle Luke was a tribe member and needed no permission. As a Black Mountain Apache, his uncle could come and go as he wished. But his partner, Cassidy Walker, was not Apache. A white woman, from the Midwest he recalled. Federal agencies needed approval from the tribal council before conducting business on the rez.
“I’ll need a reason.” Gabe reached the fork to Wolf Canyon. He knew that Selena lived with her family up a side road that veered to the left.
Had she headed home or somewhere else? He didn’t know, but he followed his hunch and made the turn toward her house. If her father was the passenger, that would be their likely move.
“I’ll fax you the official request. In the meantime, I have information on the crystal meth cooks you’ve been chasing.”
For several years the Mexican cartels had been storing product on the rez to avoid federal jurisdiction. Last fall, Gabe and his men had taken out a mobile meth lab, thanks to the help of Clay. But there were plenty of places to hide on twelve thousand acres.
“Any information that would help narrow the search?”
“Some. Tessay wants a deal.”
Arnold Tessay had been a member of the Black Mountain Tribal Council until they’d discovered that he’d had been tipping off the meth cooks whenever the authorities got close. That made Gabe sick, and so did his suspicion that there were other insiders working with the cartels, beyond the Wolf Posse, which was the tribal gang that sold and distributed drugs on their reservation, acted as muscle and took on other distasteful jobs.
“According to Tessay’s attorney, the raw product is still on the rez. That syncs with our intel.”
“Good,” said Gabe. “What am I looking for?”
“Fifty-gallon barrels of liquid. The kind that your brothers Kino and Clay saw down on the border when they were working with the Shadow Wolves and ICE. Ask them to describe them to you. Water station barrels.”
“The blue ones?”
“Exactly. We don’t know how many. They might be moving them or planning another setup on our reservation.”
Gabe tamped down his anger at that second possibility. He couldn’t understand how an Apache could ever work with criminals. Scarce jobs or not, there was never a reason to help the drug traffickers use Indian land like some kind of home base. Though his own father had done it. But that was another story.
“The barrel contents, can they freeze?” Gabe asked.
“Yeah. Somewhere below zero, I think. Why?”
“Limits the places they can store them.”
“Hmm. I’ll find out for sure and get back to you.”
“Anything else?” asked Gabe.
“That’s it. Except we’d love to find those barrels.”
“I’m on it.”
Gabe gave a traditional farewell and punched the disconnect button on his steering wheel. He glanced toward the leaden sky. The snow had stopped for now, but he wondered if there would be more. They’d gotten another coating overnight, just enough to make driving interesting, as it always was in January on the rez. Especially for the tourists out of Phoenix who knew next to nothing about driving in snow.
Gabe reached the Doselas’ home. He didn’t need to head up the drive to see that Selena’s box truck was not among the personal vehicles.
After her father’s arrest, Selena had taken her father’s one box truck and doubled the business in his absence. With both her and her younger sister Mia driving, they managed two routes. When Selena purchased an older box truck, Mia took over her father’s truck and a longer route down to Phoenix and back. One year ago Selena had taken a loan for a used flatbed trailer and six-year-old 18-wheeler that the twins, Carla and Paula, took on longer runs. All three trucks were currently missing.
He cursed in Apache, did a one-eighty and headed back toward the town of Black Mountain.
As he drove, he radioed dispatch. Jasmine Grados responded, her smoker’s voice better in the afternoon.
“Yes, Chief.”
“Anything on the Dosela release?” Maybe he should have stopped to see if Frasco was home, as he should be under the terms of his early release. “Send the closest man to the Doselas’ to verify Frasco’s return.”
“Roger that.”
“And all eyes looking for a box truck.”
Jasmine picked up on his line of thinking. “You mean Selena’s truck or Mia’s?”
“Selena’s. Mia should be in Phoenix. Anything from DOC?”
Frasco Dosela had been returned to the reservation with the escort of one of Gabe’s men, his parole officer and a representative from the Department of Corrections who had fitted him with a radio anklet to monitor his movements.
“Not since Officer Cienega escorted Mr. Dryer off the rez.”
“When was that?”
“About ten. Um...logged at ten eighteen, Chief.”
He glanced at the dash. It was past noon. Frasco Dosela had better be home on house arrest.
Gabe was already hitting the gas.
“Anything going on?” he asked, checking on the day’s activities.
“One thing. Officer Chee isn’t in yet.”
His patrolman had been on the force for less than a year, was green as grass, inexperienced, lacked confidence but he was punctual.
Gabe lifted the radio. “You call him?”
“Yes, Chief. Home and mobile. No answer.”
“Send a unit.”
“Ten-four.”
“Anything else?” Gabe asked.
“Pretty quiet.”
“All right. Keep me posted on Chee. Out.”
Wouldn’t be the first time someone missed a shift. Still, it wasn’t like him, and Gabe had that uncomfortable sensation that often preceded bad news. It sort of felt like there was a cold spot in his gut. He had that numbness now, though whether over his officer’s absence or Selena’s little mystery passenger he was not sure.
Gabe knew Selena’s route as well as he knew his own. The delivery of fresh baked goods took her around the entire 113-mile loop through the reservation and usually before ten in the morning.
She should have been done and home by now.
“Where you going, Selena?”
Chapter Three (#ulink_cd1efda1-18d1-5156-9b65-e607389615bd)
“Who are we meeting?” Selena asked her father as she hunched over the wheel of her box truck, her eyes flashing to the side mirrors as she periodically searched for Gabe.
“Escalanti’s men. They’re at the meth lab with a small delivery. Dryer, too.”
Matthew Dryer was the man from the Department of Corrections who was supposed to have put a tamper-proof anklet on her father. Instead, Dryer had given him the easy-on, easy-off model. Not standard issue.
Her father continued with the plan as Selena kept one hand on the wheel and the other clenched in her hair. How could this be happening?
“Eventually they need a regular run. Bring a few barrels of chemicals to the meth lab each week for production. Then transport the finished product from the lab down to Phoenix.”
“We can’t transport off the rez.”
The moment they rolled one tire off the reservation, they both lost their protected status as members of the Black Mountain Apache Tribe. Any crime they committed could be tried in state or federal court instead of in their own tribal judicial courts.
“Escalanti doesn’t give a damn about our protected status. Only his.”
Escalanti, the new leader of the Wolf Posse, had a reputation for never leaving the reservation. In fact, he rarely left the shabby house they called headquarters.
“So that guy from the Department of Corrections is Raggar’s man?”
Her father hesitated. “Yup.”
Her dad was an excellent liar, but he had that little tell, the hesitation before answering. Selena released her hair and put both hands on the wheel. So, who was Dryer really?
“Don’t you think, with Gabe Cosen sniffing around, we should try this another time?”
“It’s all arranged. And it’s a big reservation. Besides, he won’t follow off the reservation.”
“He might. Or he might be waiting for us when we come back.”
“You can drop me. You’ll be alone. Stop worrying. You’re like an old woman.”
This just got better and better. She knew that her father had been approached in prison by the leader of the Raggar crime family, who was managing the business nicely from federal prison. Better access to criminals, she supposed.
“And what happens if we turn around, find Gabe and tell him everything?”
“Gabe arrests me and probably you. Escalanti tells his people down across the border that we can’t deliver the product and they send killers to our home. Plus Raggar won’t get the delivery and he’ll be after us, too.”
Selena had had this pressed-to-the-wall feeling since her father returned home this morning. It felt as if someone was kneeling on her chest.
“Where are we going, exactly?”
Her father directed her to Sammy Leekela’s junkyard off Route 60, just shy of the border of their sovereign land.
Sammy Leekela had a part for everything stockpiled on his four-acre lot that was ringed by rusting fencing to keep out the scavengers of the animal and human variety.
“Here? They’re cooking meth here?” she asked.
“Perfect place. Off the beaten path but close to Route 60. Lots of land. Fenced. Nothing to kill with the fumes.”
“I thought it was a mobile meth lab,” she said.
She paused at the rusty gate. Usually, if she needed a part, she went to the office. But today the gate receded the instant she pulled into the drive. Because they were expected.
