Never-ending-snake (2 page)

“All the traveling . . . With family, it isn’t easy,” Ella warned in a low, thoughtful voice.

“After two tours in Afghanistan, my wife, Marie, is used to not having me around for long periods of time. She wouldn’t know what to do with me if I decided to stay home,” he added, suddenly laughing.

The gesture transformed his face, and for that brief moment Adam Lonewolf was just another young Navajo man looking forward to being home again with his family.

“As a police detective, I imagine your family’s had its share of adapting to the demands of your work, too. It can’t be easy for them whenever they hear about an officer involved in a shooting,” he said, his expression shifting back to
its somber mood.

“That’s true,” she admitted. “Even accepting the small things, like my not showing up for dinner or a school event, can be hard on them sometimes. But my daughter knows that if she needs me I’m just a phone call away. The same goes for her dad,” she added, glancing at Kevin.

“I haven’t always been that accessible to my family,” Adam said, “particularly when I was on patrol or
at some remote mountain outpost halfway around the world. What helped me most back then was knowing I could count on my clan to look after things for me here.”

Ella nodded. The dependable support system clans provided were multilayered, more than family, and more complex than most people on the outside ever realized. “The Rez is a good place to live. It’s too bad that work’s always so hard to
find.”

“That’s one of the things I hope to change, or at least influence for the better, as a lobbyist. I could make a real difference for other families, and my own, if I could bring more jobs to the Navajo Nation.”

“You can be very persuasive, and people genuinely like you, Adam. That’ll get you the contacts you need to advance the tribe’s agenda,” Kevin said. “I’ve seen you working those
business conferences and agency gatherings in D.C. You can hold your own with practically anyone.”

Adam smiled and this time it did reach his eyes. “Learning to communicate effectively, even with total strangers, is something the military teaches you. It’s a survival skill as well as a tactical necessity sometimes.”

Ship Rock, the ancient volcanic cone rising from the desert floor, came into
view again through the front cockpit
glass as the aircraft banked to the west. The pilot then circled to the right, lining up the aircraft as they lost more altitude, approaching from the south toward the small landing strip southwest of “downtown” Shiprock.

Adam grew quiet again, his hands on the briefcase on his lap as he stared out the window.

From what she could read of his body language,
he was impatient, eager to land. She had a feeling that Adam had missed his wife a lot more than he’d readily admit. She smiled, sympathizing.

Ahead, to their left and far below, Ella saw a white van coming down the access road from the west. It wasn’t her mother, Rose, and her husband, Herman. Her stepfather still drove his old hot rod pickup. Maybe it was cargo for the single engine aircraft’s
return flight to Albuquerque—or a service vehicle.

Their small craft dropped quickly, then flared out and slowed, touching down with a gentle bump of the rear landing gear. The nose dropped slightly, and the front gear touched down. The pilot cut the engine speed again, applied the brakes, and they slowed quickly. Without the roar of big jet engines and the whir from the activation of flaps and
such, their landing was relatively quiet. They slowed to a few miles per hour, then turned to the right and taxied toward a small hangar.

Home. Ella’s heart began to beat faster, and she looked in vain at the small parking lot, hoping to see Herman’s pickup. She couldn’t wait to see Dawn. Although she’d only been away for three days, it felt like an eternity had passed. Phone calls were never
enough, and bulletin-style e-mails and tweets lacked a personal touch.

They came to a stop about fifty feet from the edge of the asphalt. The pilot took off his headset, unbuckled his seat belt, then half turned in his seat. “No ground crew here, folks. Sorry. You can unbuckle and gather your gear while I
climb out and deploy the steps.” He opened his door and dropped down to the pavement.

“Will your family be coming to pick you up?” Ella asked Adam as she reached under her seat for her purse.

“No, my wife has been helping my parents at our sheep camp up in the mountains. I expect Marie’s still on the road, driving back. I was planning to ride in with Kevin, then pick up a car at the tribal motor pool on the mesa.”

Ella again noted the brown leather briefcase he’d held protectively
on his lap the entire flight.

Following her gaze, he gave her a quick half smile. “When I left the Army, I told myself I’d find a job where I’d never have to carry anything heavy around again. But my wife bought this for me, so I’m stuck with taking paperwork home to show her how much I appreciate the gift,” he added, then laughed. “Win some, lose some.”

She smiled and looked past Adam at the
open cockpit door. The pilot was outside adjusting the small aluminum steps. “Every time I take a trip, I go with a half empty suitcase so I can bring back gifts for my family,” Ella said.

“I may have to up-size next trip. This time, beside a special edition board game for my nephew, I’ve actually got some important papers crowded in here. I could have used a tote bag for the game, I guess, but
I like to keep one hand free whenever I can—and I’m never going to carry anything over my shoulder again.”

Kevin laughed. “When my daughter was younger, I always brought back something for her and lodged it between tribal documents.” He took a deep breath, rising from his seat and crouching low, waiting for them to exit. “My job has sure changed a lot these past few years.”

“For the better or
worse?” Adam asked.

“Worse, particularly lately,” Kevin said, following Adam out of the aircraft. “Ever since I started building my case against Alan Grady, the manager who handles our new tribal
casino in Fruitland, things have been a little edgy.” Kevin looked up to see if Ella needed a hand down the simple ladder.

“Something about his firm overbilling the tribe, right?” Ella asked, taking
Kevin’s hand for balance as she climbed down.

“Yeah, that’s it in a nutshell. Right now I’m preparing a lawsuit to recover some overpayments. It’s a contractual issue, but several hundred thousand are at stake. Enough, apparently, to make me a target, at least for harassment. I wouldn’t be surprised if my enemies try to get me fired once they discover I can’t be intimidated.”

“Nice to be at
an airport where there’s no need for security,” Adam noted, his gaze taking in the airstrip facilities.

“Just a couple of mechanics and a delivery truck,” Kevin said, laughing. “Consider yourself off the clock, Adam.”

Ella gazed at the Chuska Mountains to the west and took a deep breath, looking up at clear blue skies. New Mexico air smelled sweeter than the exhaust-laden oxygen substitute she’d
been forced to breathe in D.C.

Life, even in the twenty-first century, was less complicated here on the
Dinétah
. Their airport, for example, was nothing more than a few narrow asphalt strips with a wide spot at one end and a hangar just large enough to provide a little shade for the mechanic. To her right, about fifty yards from the hangar, were the fuel pumps, and beyond, a small cinder block
structure with a rooftop observation area. She smiled, glad to be back on her turf.

“Any sign of Rose and Herman?” Kevin asked as the three of them stepped away from the aircraft, waiting for their luggage. The pilot, Pete Sanchez, ducked under the wing and moved to the belly, where there was a storage compartment.

“No, I didn’t see the pickup or Mom’s old car when we were coming down.” Sticking
to a precise schedule was
more of an Anglo preoccupation. Things on the Rez usually ran on Indian time.

“Dawn’s coming with them, right?” Kevin asked.

“Yeah. Nothing could keep her away,” Ella said, grinning widely. “She’s probably got a million things to tell us now that she’s finally in middle school. Her life seems to run at a faster pace than ours.”

Hearing the faint squeal of tires, Ella
noted the arrival of the white van she’d observed during the approach. It looked like a FedEx ground service van, though she couldn’t see the sign from this angle. Glancing back toward the aircraft, she saw Pete retrieving their luggage, three soft side bags and two carry-ons.

“Someone was supposed to meet me here with a car,” Kevin grumbled, bringing out his cell phone. “I should have called
ahead to remind them when we reached Albuquerque.”

“You got spoiled in the big city where there’s a taxicab going by every thirty seconds,” Ella said, laughing. “Maybe the tribal car’s in the shop and that van’s your ride.”

Ella glanced at Adam. His gaze was focused on the van, which had whipped around, then come to a stop, rear doors facing them. An uneasy feeling crept up her spine and almost
simultaneously, the badger fetish at her neck, a gift from her brother, became scalding hot—a sure sign of danger. Ella placed her hand on the butt of her pistol.

Adam took a step closer to Kevin, his gaze still fixed on the van.

Suddenly both rear doors flew open and two bulky men in black overalls armed with assault rifles jumped down to the pavement.

“Guns!” Ella dove for the asphalt as
the men began firing from the hip.

Glancing back, Ella saw Adam yank Kevin to the ground beside the starboard side landing gear, then drop to one knee, grabbing at his thigh, instinctively reaching for the
service Beretta he’d worn for years. A second later he flinched, then toppled to the pavement, blood spewing from his head.

Groaning from an apparent hit, Kevin curled up behind the meager
protection of the landing gear wheel.

Ella, her nine-millimeter service pistol in hand, snapped off three quick shots, then rolled to her left, trying to use the shadow cast from the aircraft’s tail for concealment. The two shooters stopped moving forward but kept their weapons up by their shoulders, squeezing off round after round. The pilot, in line when the men first opened fire, had already
taken a stray bullet to the shoulder, but the assailants were no longer paying any attention to him. Their targets appeared to be the men wearing suits. As she fired at the pair, the pilot dove back into the aircraft through the open door.

Ella aimed directly at the closest gunman’s chest, and fired twice. The man flinched, and staggered back. A hit.

Ella shifted, trying to get a sight picture
on the second man, who was at least ten feet from his partner. Before she could squeeze off a shot, he located her in the shadows and fired a half dozen rounds of suppressing fire.

Ella rolled, the bullets digging up asphalt where she’d been an instant before, and returned fire. The man’s partner, the one she’d thought she’d hit twice already, hadn’t even slowed down. He took another step forward,
firing four or five more rounds at Adam and Kevin, who were bunched together now.

She squeezed off more rounds. She was scoring hits, the bullets rocked the attackers, but neither would go down. They were probably wearing body armor. Out of ammo, Ella dove for the only concealment around—the luggage beneath the storage compartment. One of the shooters was reloading, replacing the spent magazine
with another, but his partner kept snapping off one round at a time, and she had to roll again to stay out of sight.

On her back, she released the spent magazine and groped in her jacket pocket for the spare clip. Bullets ricocheted off the pavement, striking metal, and she wondered what a hit on the aircraft would do to her chances. Hoping the airplane’s fuel tanks were in the wings, higher
up, she inserted the new magazine and closed the action with a touch of her thumb.

Ella looked around the edge of a carry-on to get a fix on the gunmen. They were retreating now, walking backwards toward the van. One of them snapped off a round, which whined overhead and forced her to duck behind cover.

Ella knew she had to get a sight picture and go for a head shot. Her third magazine, the
one with the armor-piercing rounds, was in her purse, somewhere over by the right wing. Rising to a crouch, she dove toward the left side landing-gear wheel. The metal post and wheel would give her more protection than a suitcase full of clothes. With a little luck, there was still an outside chance that she could take them down.

One of the men reached the van and jumped into the back, giving
her an opening. She brought her weapon up in a two-handed grip, but the shooter still on the ground fired three quick shots, pinning her down again before she could squeeze off a round. One of the bullets struck the tire just beside her head and it exploded, stinging her with rubber, steel cord, or both. There was a thump on the asphalt next, and she saw a roundish object rolling in her direction.
Her heart nearly stopped.

Grenade! She hugged the ground, covering her head with her arms. “Love you, Dawn.” she muttered, expecting the worst.

A heartbeat later there was a loud pop instead of the earthshaking blast and scream of flying metal she’d expected. Recognizing the sound, she looked up to see a billowing cloud of white smoke. It wasn’t her time—not yet—and the realization brought her
hope—and anger.

Hearing the sound of closing doors, Ella fired blind at the vanishing outline of the van, screened by the smoke for obvious reasons. Her chances of scoring a head shot now were slim to none.

Realizing the smoke concealed her as well, she ran around the nose of the aircraft, angling for a clear shot. The accelerating van was already a hundred yards down the road. Ella aimed carefully,
squeezed off two more shots at a rear tire, but missed. Only a lucky hit could have stopped them now, but if it had, then what? She was outgunned and low on ammo.

Hearing shouts, Ella turned around and saw three men—the landing strip’s personnel—running toward the single-engine aircraft. She jammed her pistol back into the holster and grabbed her cell phone.

“We called the police,” one yelled.
“I told them about the white van—and the men. They’re putting out an ATL, whatever that is.”