In the Red Dragon's Shadow - Come the Jackals: Alpha Strike at America

By B.H. La Forest

Released -- January 2011

Red Dragon's Shadow "reboots" at a point a few years after the conclusion of Shadow Partners - A Law Enforcement Story. Manfred Kurtz is still the Special Agent in Charge (SAC) of ATF's Detroit Field Division, and Angelo Tana is his assistant. The joint ATF Detroit Police Department (DPD) task force continues to work successfully on matters that cross jurisdictional lines.

The story begins with a series of brutal murders in three separate States. Seemingly, they are not connected. Local jurisdictions are busy investigating the crimes, with no reason to suspect any relationship to other incidents.

When she chances upon a Detroit crime scene, AUSA Janet Evergreen misses being killed by seconds. Although Janet had not witnessed the assassination of a DPD officer, she did take note of the driver of a getaway vehiclea man who recognized Janet.

Manfred Kurtz and the Task Force members become involved after another source reveals facts about another murder. Assigned ATF agents and DPD officers again begin work on what first appears as a simple case. Far from being an elementary, the men and women will become embroiled in political corruption, murder, firearms trafficking and the first (ALPHA) strike against America by a determined terrorist organization.

China wants to make inroads into America's love of guns through established firearms' importation procedures. However, the legitimate effort has been subverted by new adversaries from China. Led by a Chinese colonel from the People's Liberation Army and a cabal, consisting of a select group of military and political members of China's elite, a subplot surfaces. Alliances and treacherous activities will quickly pit radical Muslims from Iran, Iraq and China, against Kurtz, the Task Force and Chinese investigators with similar credentials as ATF.

Before long, the race is on to identify and neutralize the terrorist group responsible for many dead Americans. The country's law enforcement is stymied on the makeup of the group and where they might strike again. In a bizarre turn of events, ATF becomes the number one target of criticism from all sides of the firearms' issues, and is blamed for the attacks.

With the ATF/DPD Task Force morale wavering, even with promising leads in hand, the Director of another agency decides ATF has been mortally wounded. He calculates that the time is right to scrape up the tidbits developed by the Task Force. His agency identified what the group's acronym stands for, and intends to parlay what he has into a chance for significant publicity. Even so, the Director might not have all of the information he requires for success, or does he?

Faced with having to relinquish the investigation, Manfred Kurtz and Angelo Tana receive a lifeline. It is tossed to them by a Chinese criminal investigator. Colonel Mozi Zemin has come across information vital to the Task Force. However, Kurtz and Tana must travel to Hong Kong where they race to intercept a shipment of weapons of mass destruction.

Back in the U.S., the Task Force investigation continues--and so do the assassinations of American citizens. Progress is being made, though. Bit-by-bit, ATF and DPD officers and their support people begin to build a picture of the scope of the terrorist operation. But, just before a national enforcement operation, Washington decides to hold back ATF. Instead, their bosses at the Treasury Department acquiesce to a partial case-takeover by the Departments of Defense and Justice. A small carrier task force will search the Pacific for the arms shipments, while ATF handles the countrywide raids.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456721299

B.H. La Forest

In this new career as an author, I have relied on my experiences as a police officer, special agent, supervisor, and manager in my chosen profession. My first three novels take place in many of the localities where I served as a law enforcement officer and special agent. Detroit was my hometown, and the city where I began my career in the profession in 1962—as a Detroit Police Officer. Nine years later, I became an Investigator with Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms. Charleston, West Virginia would be the first of thirteen assignments that required a transfer. Firearm and Explosive's crimes were rapidly surpassing moonshine violations in West Virginia, which necessitated redeployment of special agents. After passage of the Explosives Control Act, I transferred to Los Angeles California as a member of ATF's new Bomb Scene Investigation Team. Two years later, a promotion as the Resident Agent in Charge in Phoenix was my first supervisory assignment. Two years later, I transferred again as the Group Supervisor of the Los Angeles Metro squad. In Southern California—and at every other assignment—I sought to focus each squad . . . and later, those Field Divisions I headed . . . toward investigation of complex investigations. Emphasis is always best-placed on case initiations of criminal activity involving multiple violators and offenses. Case-quality, intricacies of the criminal enterprise, and significant impact on crime were predominant factors weighed before case initiation. Complicated conspiracies usually breed cooperative defendants. Armed with turned sources—conspirators flipped at various stages in those types of cases—it proved much more productive and worthwhile. Working on organized criminal groups that pose the most serious threat to society was a rewarding endeavor. Beginning in 1977 with a transfer to Washington, D.C., I eventually served as the Special Agent in Charge in New Orleans, Kansas City, Detroit (twice), Phoenix, and Los Angeles . . . where I retired in 1998. As a member of the Senior Executive Service (SES), broad exposure to other branches of government: Congress, CIA, Customs, IRS, Secret Service, U.S. Marshals, INS, Border Patrol and the Departments of Treasury, State, and Justice. Contact with these organizations proved valuable, and helped me add even closer relationships at the field level. I worked closely with Federal, state, and local representatives on joint task force efforts. These experiences have led me to a new career as a writer of detailed thrillers. After retirement in 1998, I was asked to assist ATF executives in 2001 as an Advisor/Consultant to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. The issue concerned the development of a strategy for ATF’s enforcement initiative, entitled, National Instant Criminal Background Check System (NICS). The objective of the strategy was to enable optimal application of both special agent and administrative resources. A streamlined method was developed and approved. The new procedures saved money, and permitted redeployment of special agents toward more critical investigative endeavors and priorities. 2001 to 2007, I developed a detailed method for the close examination and evaluation of all crime gun traces in Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico, Utah and Wyoming. I forwarded thousands of referrals to ATF offices, and to other agencies in America and foreign countries. Those investigative leads dealt with falsified gun purchases, domestic and international trafficking in guns and narcotics, terrorism and other violent crimes. In 2010, I published my first book, Shadow Partners - A Law Enforcement Story. Then in 2011, a second novel In the Red Dragon's Shadow - Come the Jackals, went to print. A Matter of Lex Talionis – Send in de Avilés, will be available in 2012.

Book preview

I

Alpha (1st) Strike Against America—The Beginning

Cold March days were common in St. Paul, Minnesota. Today was no exception. Strong upper level winds whipped menacing dark clouds around the gray skies. Meteorological action guaranteed some form of precipitation would hit before noontime.

Harold Bauer had just kissed his wife of thirteen years goodbye at their suburban home in Popple Creek. Before their father walked down the steps, he had paused, turned and gave each of his three boys a generous hug. He strolled across the yellowed grass, opened the door to an old brown Chevrolet, and started the engine. Backing out of the double-ribbon, cement driveway, Bauer waved in the direction of the porch before he drove away, headed to his job in St. Cloud. The loyal postal worker would not return to his family that day, to his wife and children waving back from the porch.

Two blocks north of Bauer’s home, a large white step van eased away from the curb. Slowly accelerating, it eventually picked up speed and pulled behind the brown Chevy. The driver was a dark-skinned young man, dressed in a black leather jacket, Levi’s and military-style boots. In one smooth motion, he reached down with his left hand and pressed a small button alongside his seat.

Two red lights winked on-and-off inside the concealed portion of the truck. Sitting quietly on bench seats, two bearded men in their early thirties moved when they saw the lights. A rectangular-shaped table ran the length of the vehicle’s cargo area. Someone had worked hard at installing well-built wooden cabinets above the benches, and on the front wall of the cargo area. Between the upper and lower units, a skilled carpenter had built modest work areas for tasks described in detail. Down the center of the van, some dandy metal work complemented the cabinets. The carpenter had installed an eight-foot long stainless-steel table, and bolted it to the carpeted floor. Beneath the table were built-in metal drawers of various dimensions.

Someone had treated the step van’s metal-paneled walls with a heavy, rubberized padding. In all, they had achieved the desired effect. Only the muted sounds from outside traffic made it through the barriers on both sides of the vehicle. The latter modification made little difference to the bearded men, since neither was listening for interference from the outside. Both were calmly attending to their all-important task for that morning. While assembling a brand-new Type-81 machine gun and its telescopic sight, the older man took the lead.

Recently issued to members of the People’s Liberation Army (PLA), the machine gun looked almost identical to China’s AK-47 platform. Even so, the Type-81’s design greatly enhanced the traditional AK-47’s reputation. It had much less recoil, a better flash suppressor, and included certain elements that had increased its efficiencies as a sniper platform. Chinese manufacturers had copied the latter characteristic from Russia’s Draganov sniper model which Yevgeny Dragunov designed in the 60’s. It was quickly becoming a standard squad support weapon for the PLA.

The other man was a bit younger, and occupied himself with a state-of-the-art video camera. Associates had recently stolen the professional system from a local TV station. Along with the camera, thieves had also swiped a case that held a first-rate telephoto lens.

Up ahead, Bauer glanced in his left-side mirror when he neared the intersection for the right turn onto Hwy 23. As he did, he noticed the driver of an idling step van was glaring at him. Bauer watched the man’s reflection in the Chevy’s side mirror. The guy’s threatening, unwavering stare, made the postal worker squirm in his seat. Spying an opening behind a blue pickup that was waiting to turn left, Bauer suddenly accelerated and jerked his steering wheel to the right. After his turn, he checked over his shoulder and out the rear window. Pleased with himself that the rapid move had worked, he could see the step van was still at the stop sign.

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Bauer was about to drive onto the DeSoto Bridge. At more than thirty feet above the swollen Mississippi River, the span would deposit him near the post office at Second Street and Ninth Avenue. Taken by surprise, Bauer was not prepared when the step van changed lanes behind his car. A streak of white flashed across all three of his mirrors. He thought he had left the delivery truck behind. The postal carrier applied his brakes and slowed, still shocked at its appearance. He watched it drive by on the right side, then pull well ahead of his Chevrolet. Relieved by the indifferent maneuver, he was pleased to see the step van traveling a little faster than before. The more distance placed between his vehicle and the van was a good thing, thought Bauer.

Ignoring its presence, Bauer attempted a grin at his momentary fear of the other driver. When he thought a bit more, his smile promptly faded. No denying, the van’s driver had acted belligerently. Who the heck would want to hurt an innocent mailman, he thought?

Almost in the center of the bridge now, he checked his rear view mirrors for other traffic. Oddly enough, the morning’s DeSoto Bridge traffic was unusually thin. With only seven blocks to go before he arrived at the post office, he felt safe. Even when the white step van slowed perceptively, the postal carrier did not consider it a hazardous omen. He had already dismissed the issue from his mind as he passed the center mark of the span over the Mississippi River.

Harold Bauer never made it to the other end of the DeSoto Bridge. Fidgeting in his seat while he tried to light one last cigarette before work, he missed seeing the open slot in one of the van’s rear doors. Just two inches of the barrel protruded from the small aperture. Strapped to the table inside the van, was a new Type-56. Its specially thickened barrel rested securely in a black tripod.

Dressed in camouflage fatigues, the middle-aged passenger lay on the metal table. From this prone position, he took careful aim at the driver’s head. It filled the twelve-power scope’s eye piece, less than fifteen car lengths behind. The sniper watched for a brief moment, amused to see his mark struggling to light his last cigarette. A tiny hole formed in Bauer’s windshield a micro second before his head jerked back. A copper-jacketed, 7.62 round passed through his skull, the headrest, and through the rear window—leaving a bloody trail in the backseat. Before the spider web had begun to form across the surface of the windshield, the Chevy careened out of control.

Traveling fifty yards behind, the driver of a GMC pickup heard a thunk when something struck his bumper. He paid little attention to the sound—more concerned with what was happening to the car in front of him. He watched, fascinated, as the Chevrolet gained speed as it swerved from side to side. Without warning, the car straightened, and then roared headlong toward the right-side of the DeSoto Bridge. A second and a half after it smashed into the high curb, the car was airborne. Flight lasted just until the Chevy’s two front wheels struck the rail running along the top of the cement wall. Rubber from blown tires flew in every direction as both front wheels buckled underneath the car and snapped. When that happened, the sheer weight of the vehicle flipped it forward and through the air. The driver in the GMC had slammed on his brakes and skidded to a stop. Gripping his steering wheel with both hands, he watched in horror as Bauer’s car disappeared from view—plunging toward the icy Mississippi below.

Inside the step van, the two assassins leisurely disassembled their gear. As he unloaded his video camera, the photographer punched a button mounted on the corner of a cabinet. Both men felt the truck surge forward, signaling that the driver understood they had successfully accomplished their mission. After a quick look at the camera’s preview window, the camera operator popped out the VHS cassette, confident they had captured the entire episode on videotape. He was especially pleased to see that he had captured the crimson spray inside Bauer’s car. The military round had turned the driver’s skull into bloody pulp.

Much later the same day, police divers tried to find the Chevy in the Mississippi River’s fast moving current. After their attempts had failed, the assigned accident investigators remained at a loss to explain the crash. Their single witness—the motorist in the GMC pickup could add nothing to what appeared to have been an unfortunate accident.

That was what the people of St. Cloud heard on their evening news, along with a wrenching interview with Mrs. Bauer and her three young boys. The viewing audience also watched a short video clip showing the reaction of a representative from the Postal Inspection Service, assigned to the Minneapolis office. The inspector was there because of a requirement that called for an investigation of all traffic accidents, where the death of a postal employee had been involved. He had some well chosen and thought-provoking words to offer about Harold Bauer. All the public heard was good man before the anchor switched to the weatherman’s preliminary report.

Four days later, in California, a few miles north of Crescent City, a truck belonging to one of the state’s utility companies drove along Highway 101. George Lamont and Hector Ruiz had just completed a two-day assignment without having to call in other technicians. After lunch, they decided to drive on through—a little over two-hundred miles. Both had agreed to stop for coffee and donuts at a small, family-style restaurant north of Fort Bragg. The place was famous for its friendliness, bracing Hawaiian coffee and freshly baked pastries. After the quick stop, their plan called for driving south a few miles on the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). Lamont and Ruiz had a favored spot along that portion of the Mendocino Coast, just off the highway at a Pacific overlook.

Late that afternoon, Ruiz volunteered to pay for the donuts and coffee, and returned to the truck in quick order. The aroma of fresh java wafted up from the individual holders, while the bag of baked goods tickled their noses with other delicious scents. They resumed their journey south on the PCH, toward one of their favorite Pacific outcrops.

A few miles farther, the young Mexican was commenting on how beautiful the Pacific looked at sunset. Ruiz always became animated when he was describing his preferred region of California, near the Western Section of the Redwood National Forest.

While he listened to his partner’s visual travelogue, George Lamont repeatedly eyed his left-side mirror. The white step van had been tailing their service truck since they had pulled out of the restaurant’s parking lot. He could not see the driver’s face, although, something was suspicious about the way he kept behind them—never trying to pass.

Up ahead, Lamont saw the turn off. He signaled, slowed and pulled onto a dirt road that led up a slight rise. Through a grove of Cypress trees, the narrow path continued three quarters of a mile to the Pacific Ocean. At the end of the trek, their heavy utility truck came out of the trees and into a large clearing. At this point, they were not very far from the edge of a high bluff and the ocean below.

Lamont opened his door and stepped out. Stretching arms above his old-style brush-cut, he admired the incredible view of the blue water below. From far below, he could hear the sound of surf as it crashed against the escarpment’s craggy foundation.

Then he heard Ruiz’s door slam shut. Madre mia, exclaimed his cheerful partner. What a fantastic site! It makes a person thankful to be alive to enjoy it.

Lamont shook his head in agreement. "You bet! California has it all. Just look at that gorgeous orange sun, no place on earth I would rather live."

Both turned at the sound of the truck coming through the tree line, and Lamont was instantly uncomfortable. The dread increased exponentially when the truck pulled to a stop. He could see that the driver was a young, dark-skinned guy. The man just sat in the truck, staring at Lamont and Hector.

Lamont was apparently not the only person concerned about the sight of the other truck. What the fuck is he up to? asked Ruiz.

He’s been on our ass since we left the restaurant, answered Lamont. "Let’s get out of here. I don’t want any trouble."

The two utility line installers turned and reached for their doors, but that was as far as they got. "George Lamont! Hold it right there!" The voice was hard, full of authority.

Lamont wheeled around, expecting to find the driver of the step van. Instead, he saw two men—wearing black knitted balaclava and camouflage fatigues. Both were carrying Kalashnikov machine guns. Lamont tried to cover his fright with a challenging facade. Who are you? How in the hell do you know my name?

The beauty of the late afternoon was abruptly shattered. A flock of seagulls roosting on the sides of the cliff reacted to the piercing sound of gunfire. Squawking loudly, they soared out and over the water, away from the rocky precipice.

Lamont and Ruiz lay on the ground near their utility truck. Hector was dead, shot several times in the chest and head. Lamont, although wounded severely, had crawled toward his truck’s running board. He hoisted his bleeding body, and leaned his back against the bottom of the cab.

As the two men approached where he lay, Lamont whispered, Why? What the hell did we do?

"Nothing! You did not do anything, George. This is for Allah and the greater good. I can tell you that much." The older of the two—a bearded black man, had stepped in front of the younger shooter. He stared at Lamont for several seconds, and then stepped aside. "You’re a lousy fuckin’ shot, Mukhtar. Now, finish him."

Walking forward a few paces, the second man looked down at Lamont. Giving up, the wounded man simply turned toward the ocean. Three rounds, in rapid succession, tore into his back and exited through his chest.

Inside the step van, the driver busied himself with television equipment—checking to see if Mukhtar got everything. He turned off the video recorder, extracted the tape and moved to the rear of the van. Meanwhile, the other two had pulled off their balaclava coverings and were casually walking back to the parked step van.

After dark, a California Highway Patrol (CHP) officer checked the overlook for suspicious cars as part of his evening routine. He found the abandoned utility truck and looked around the site. Finding nothing immediately, the officer called in what he had to his dispatchers.

By 8:30 p.m., he and several investigators had concluded their search of the area. They found little evidence besides tissue spatters on the side of the truck, and two dried pools of blood. It would be the following morning before they searched the crime scene again, and in much greater detail. With the benefit of the sun, homicide investigators recovered several 7.62 slugs, along with a single, shiny 7.62 casing.

Two hours before the CHP had begun their early search; heavy rain had transformed a normally busy morning commute in Detroit. It had changed from just being annoying, to being extremely treacherous. Most of the winter snow had melted off the steep sides of the ditch, the John Lodge Expressway. However, torrents of rain were rearranging the hillsides, washing paper, plastic, mud and other assorted trash down to the expressway.

Detroit Police Officer Burtrum Graybrook was cruising along in his new Buick Riviera. Stereo speakers blasted the sound of the rain from his mind as he headed for work at 1300 Beaubien—Detroit Police Headquarters. Graybrook still resented his reassignment, and felt the early shift in the Records Bureau was a total pain in the ass. Although, it did afford him the luxury of avoiding the worst of traffic, on both ends of his tour.

Just after his car sped underneath the Clairmont overpass, the officer had to tap his brakes—hard. A white step van shot across the freeway from the entrance ramp, and into his lane. Disgusted and angry, he yelled, You fuckin’ ass hole!

The police officer tromped heavily on the gas pedal and pulled out from behind the Cadillac he’d been following. The Riviera slipped sideways—just a bit, when its passing gear kicked in. Nevertheless, something wasn’t right because the faster he accelerated, the farther away the step van got. Hydroplaning is an extremely uncomfortable feeling for most people. When the officer pressed firmly on the gas, he was pleased to feel the front-wheel drive jerk the car into submission.

Still, Graybrook was angry and not exactly sure of what he was going to do if he did catch up with the white step van. He had an idea, though, and reached down on the floor of the passenger seat. Yep, it’s here!

Graybrook grabbed the police light and tried to jam it between the windshield and dash. It didn’t work, which angered the big man even more. He plugged the light into the cigarette lighter on the instrument panel. This time, the bright rotating blue light flashed and almost blinded the officer. Graybrook’s day was going badly.

Inside the white step van, the cargo bore striking resemblance to the truck used the day before in the California shooting. It was a different driver who watched the Riviera through large side mirrors. He saw Graybrook struggling with the flashing blue light. Grinning to himself, he signaled the men in the rear by pressing the button next to his seat.

Both of them were working on their respective tasks. Mustapha Silah was a forty-year-old black man with a heavy beard and mustache. His black dashiki was trimmed with red and green piping, and was a gift from his commander when they had served in Libya.

Right then, he was checking out the AK-47. The little things tended to annoy Mustapha. His mind wandered from the operation as he thought about the new machine gun. I really don’t give a shit what the others call these Chinese guns. It was an AK-47 in Vietnam, Laos and the Parrot’s Beak in Cambodia. It’s the same goddamn AK-47, but now—it’s in the Motor City!

The other passenger was much younger. He was from Iraq, having fled the war between his country and Iran. As a youngster growing up in the Al-Anbar Governorate, his village had been very small. Raised in the Sunni Denomination of Islam, the boy was a strict follower. As such, Nabil Ali Yazzi discovered that he wanted no part in the killing of fellow Muslims in Iran—even if they were Shia. Fighting against them was ridiculous in Yazzi’s mind. His preference was a chance to kill Americans. After all, wasn’t it the U.S. that had brought instability to the Middle East? Was it not the Iranians who had rubbed America’s face in the sand during the alleged hostage crisis?

Yazzi spoke decent English, with only a slight tinge of an accent. Even if he hadn’t, it would not have affected any of their planned operations, because the bearded fellow spoke excellent Arabic. It had been another benefit of his time in Africa and other countries around the Middle East.

Yazzi checked his video camera. It was an exact duplicate of the one used in California the day before. This was also the product of a theft from a local PBS station, a fact reported on the Fox News Channel.

Through the rear windows, both Muslim men watched the black car swerve in and around other vehicles. They were nearing the edge of the downtown loop, flying under the Grand River overpass near the Silver Cup Bakery. Holding on tightly to the stainless steel table, Tres Equis thought traffic was moving just a bit too fast for conditions. However, Nabil Ali Yazzi had learned that real Detroiters always drove supersonic—in rain, sleet or snow!

Approaching a tight curve near the end of the Lodge Freeway, the white van suddenly slowed, just before all lanes dove underneath the Joe Louis and Cobo Hall parking facilities. Somewhere in the tunnel, the driver saw that the John Lodge’s name changed to E. Jefferson Avenue. Right on track, he thought.

Gotcha, muthafucka, hollered Burtrum Graybrook—to nobody in particular. He had blown his horn repeatedly, but was ignored as the step van disappeared into the tunnel. When the DPD officer flew into the cement burrow, he spotted it edging toward the right-hand lane of the freeway. Much to his consternation, the driver stopped along the cement wall, causing a significant interruption in the flow of traffic through the tunnel. The action had been a very dangerous maneuver, and the officer was embarrassed that he may have been the cause. Considering the possibility, Graybrook became even more frustrated. Now he simply wanted to read the riot act to the van’s driver, and be on his way to police headquarters.

He tossed the flashing blue light on the floor of the car. Swinging his heavy frame, he opened the door to get out. As the officer struggled, he managed to grunt, Now asshole, you’re all mine.

When one of his Johnson & Murphy, patent-leather shoes touched the wet pavement, he watched the van pull ahead slowly. The overweight officer pulled himself from the Buick, threw back his unbuttoned topcoat and yelled. "Hey, you! Hold on there. I want to talk to you!"

To his astonishment, the truck continued to roll. Picking up speed, its driver deftly eased it back into the flow of traffic. Remaining in the first lane, the driver steered the truck along the wall of the tunnel. Graybrook slid back down and into the Riviera’s plush bucket-seat. His luxury car fish-tailed its way into a traffic break between two delivery trucks when the officer stomped down on the gas pedal. He was infuriated at what he considered a blatant snub—a total lack of respect for the police. That was the moment the officer resolved to put the asshole in jail, ASAP—as soon as he found a way to stop the van. Gazing intently through his windshield, Graybrook could see that his target had negotiated the incline leading out of the tunnel and onto Jefferson Avenue. Then he lost sight of it for a few seconds until he came up the incline.

When he saw the van again, it was stopped at a red light. The DPD officer was caught in traffic, six cars back, when he saw the light change to green. The van turned right Auditorium Drive. He almost lost sight of the white truck as it drove down the short street—toward the Detroit River. Graybrook paused. Atwater ran next to the fast-moving river, but why come down here in the first place? Where was the van headed, he wondered?

When his metabolism finally slowed, he considered backing off—forgetting the incident. Nevertheless, then, Graybrook made his final and fateful decision. It was no longer an issue that could be dismissed—he was too upset. Graybrook took the turn to the right. He wanted an apology from the other driver—at the very least.

The step van was stopped along the Detroit River’s break wall on Atwater Drive. Usually, little traffic was encountered during the week, in the area south of the Civic Center Plaza. It would pick up again near the factory district to the East of the Renaissance Center.

When the black Riviera came around the corner, the van’s driver-side door flew open. The officer was fifty yards away, caught off guard by a potentially hazardous state of affairs. Even more surprising was the sight of a video camera in the hands of the apparent driver. A soft touch on the brakes caused Graybrook’s car to decelerate slowly.

The officer was totally confounded why the man was pointing the lens in his direction. He wondered if it had been a set up all along—maybe like the Candid Camera show. It was the last conscious-thought of his life. Inside the van, Mustapha Silah pulled the trigger, and a single, 7.62 round rocketed along the rifled barrel of the AK-47. When it broke free of the muzzle, the suppressor hid the short, tongue of fire. The bullet traversed the fifty yards in a split second, and punched through the driver’s windshield. As the sleek, armor-piercing round tore apart the officer’s head, the fractured glass blurred the carnage left inside Burtrum Graybrook’s brand new car.

Five minutes passed before anyone approached the scene on Atwater. Janet Evergreen was an Assistant United States Attorney (AUSA), and nearing the midway point of her morning workout routine. Approaching the bottom of the stone steps to Hart Plaza, she slowed. In a few minutes, Janet would make the return trip to the Federal Court House at Lafayette and Fort Street. After a quick shower in the U.S. Marshall gym, she would take the elevator to the eighth floor office.

She pulled up sharply, settling into a slow trot before a full stop. Happy for the break in the downpour, she continued walking toward the river with hands on hips. Inhaling cold and damp air as it came off the surface of the Detroit River, Janet’s breathing slowed as her body adjusted to the slower pace. It was always around this point in her routine when she mentally dealt with the day’s expected schedule. Restarting an easy jog to the bottom of the plaza, a loud squeal of tires on the still-wet pavement to her right interrupted her scheduling process. She turned casually toward the direction of the sound.

It was a black Riviera. Absorbed in the moment, she focused on it as the car closed the distance to her location. Standing in the diminishing drizzle, Janet was curious. Why was the driver in such a hurry, no other vehicles were in sight? Maybe it was an impromptu drag-race, but I only saw one car.

The black car closed rapidly, and Janet saw the damaged windshield and the face of the white driver. Streaking by at less than twenty-yards, he glanced in her direction. Her inquisitive nature took over, and the AUSA purposefully examined the driver’s features. Something altered her intention and became more important to her at that instant. The driver was sizing her up, too. He was staring intently, and appeared genuinely astonished at seeing her.

It was possible, she thought. Perhaps they had met previously, a potential witness, or a defendant encounter of some sort. Although, Janet would later say that she failed to connect with his look of familiarity. She watched a moment longer, until the Buick made a left turn onto Renaissance Drive. That would take it out, and onto E. Jefferson Avenue. Before making a quick pivot, she jogged in place a few more seconds. Dismissing the incident, excepting the white man in the black Buick, the young attorney sprinted back toward Jefferson, to the front of the Veteran’s Memorial. From there, it was only a couple of blocks to the courthouse.

Fortunately for Janet, she had missed the step van. The two foreigners had been alerted by the Riviera’s driver, and had immediately doubled back to find her.

As she jogged back toward her building, Janet again considered the damaged windshield on the new car, but marked it down as caused by road debris. Small stones routinely broke loose when roads began to thaw. It was one hazard of living in the north. Cars and trucks often shot out debris in the direction of unsuspecting motorists who followed too closely.

The attractive AUSA was a beautiful woman. In her late twenties, she had dark brown eyes and chestnut-colored hair, usually tied in a thick pony tail. She had been raised by a Detroit Firefighter whose wife had passed away shortly after Janet’s birth. As she grew, it became clear to most that Janet had developed her mother’s self confidence and friendly nature. Fending for herself in a home with four older brothers had helped, too. When Janet furrowed her brow and turned dark eyes on an uncooperative witness, opposing counsel, or, a stubborn investigator—they rolled over. Her decisions and direction were always on the mark.

After graduation from the University of Michigan, her father had encouraged her to seek a position with the Wayne County Prosecutor’s office. It was a great suggestion. After working just three years in both Detroit Recorder’s Court and the Wayne County Court system, Janet Evergreen had nurtured a sterling prosecutorial reputation. It was a distinction that had not gone unobserved by many prominent people in her profession. Even so, the young attorney had repeatedly brushed away offers from big-shot firms in Wayne County, and neighboring political subdivisions in Oakland and Macomb.

Likewise, Mark Stephen had followed her career just as assiduously. After his selection as the new United States Attorney by the current White House, he had begun scouting possible AUSA backfills. Janet had been one of his first picks, and she had jumped at the chance. Others like her were later snatched from the public and private sectors—a term often attributed to the losing firms.

At five-seven she may not have been the tallest of the Assistant United States Attorneys, but she was the most stunning. In the busy Eastern Judicial District, Janet worked long hours, and carried a substantial case load. The truth was her paper burden was much larger than both her male and female counterparts.

The Eastern District was an especially busy office. So, whenever investigators from ATF, Customs, FBI or DEA needed legal reinforcement on difficult investigations, Janet was the person they sought out most frequently. While cutting her teeth in the tough local court systems, she had accumulated an abundance of unique skills. When it came to slicing through complicated peculiarities within the judicial system, she had no equal. Giving investigators new ways to view criminal cases, witnesses and related evidence was usual for the brilliant attorney.

It had not been that long ago that Janet had strongly influenced a successful ATF investigation. Besides the national impact, a joint ATF and DPD task force had seized a sizeable amount of weapons and other illegal armaments. During that joint operation with all of the participating agencies, she was an indispensable resource.

Manfred Kurtz was the Special Agent in Charge (SAC) of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms (ATF) in Michigan. His deep blue eyes were set off by thinning blond hair, with silver threads beginning to show along the area above his ears. In his early forties, Kurtz had been in law enforcement more years than he cared to count. Several years as a DPD officer, before moving to the Feds and ATF, had been a great experience.

Kurtz had just finished reviewing several investigative reports turned in that morning by the twelve field offices in the state. It was not his favorite task. When the shadow crossed the open door to his office, he looked up. "How was the workout?"

Angelo Tana was Manfred’s assistant—the ASAC. "Morning, Manfred, it was a super workout, just great."

Tana was a dark-haired Italian, six feet tall, with a beefy chest. His salt and pepper goatee was well trimmed, and provided a hint of danger for his undercover persona. A swarthy complexion and flashing brown eyes completed the image of a professional crook. Whenever Tana chose to do so, he could always scare the bejesus out of bad people. He and Kurtz had been partners at Detroit’s Tenth Precinct. With the third man, Ray St. Giles, they had been assigned to the same scout-car, 10-9.

After a well-publicized shooting in which St. Giles had been wounded, the three partners had been disgusted with the city’s handling of the aftermath. Only after DPD had broken up their team, and reassigned the three men, had they decided to leave. Applying for government service, each man had accepted a position with the newly constituted Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.

Kurtz had been assigned to the Pittsburgh office, while Tana was off to Chicago. That was where the Italian honed his UC expertise working on numerous, high-level undercover assignments. The third man, Ray St. Giles, had been assigned to the Charleston, West Virginia office.

Now in Detroit as the ATF SAC and ASAC, they had renewed their former roles—approaching their jobs as partners. Tana rubbed his hands together expectantly and asked, What’s on tap for today, Manfred?

"Nothing much! I’m trying to get our newest gun trace project off the ground. However, this new computer program we are using is proving difficult. What have you got planned?"

Tana sat in the side chair next to Kurtz’s desk. "I have a lunch date with Bobby Chu from Customs. I think I’ve mentioned his name to you before. We worked on a couple of cases together when we were in Miami."

"That’s right! I remember. He was a special agent when you were a group supervisor in the Sunshine State. What’s he doing in Detroit?"

"Bobby’s here to testify on a case he worked in Los Angeles. That’s where he’s stationed now. A gang of crooks in Long Beach had ties to people in this area, and Bobby was the agent who offered his snitch to the Detroit office. When the snitch started having second thoughts, Chu was brought in to work undercover with the guy. It all worked out, and the case went down last December."

The division’s Office Manager—Ellen Daniels, walked into the office and stood next to Tana. In her late thirties, Ellen had proven her value as both an ATF employee, and as an important part of the front office team. She got along well with the clerical staff in the division, and the first level supervisors as well. Manfred, Deputy Chief Locke called while you were on the phone earlier. He sounded serious. I told him I could interrupt you, but he said it could wait until you called him back.

Thanks, Ellen … I’ll buzz him right away. While Ellen was leaving the office, Kurtz punched the speed dial button. Locke had been his and Tana’s shift sergeant when they worked at Number Ten.

Tana looked at Kurtz. "That doesn’t sound like Wendell. He usually plays it close to the vest. You never know what’s on his mind."

Chief of Detectives Wendell Locke answered on the second ring. "That you, Kurtz?"

Kurtz winked at Tana, Christ, Wendell … how in the hell did you know?

That’s easy, replied Locke. "I only give this number to the Feds. Right now, I’m not on speaking terms with Secret Service, FBI, or IRS. So, it had to be either you or U.S. Customs. It’s a simple deduction, Manfred … at least for a seasoned investigator like me. Plus, I had called you earlier."

Kurtz heard the soft chuckle of his old friend. "Okay, boss! How can ATF help you?"

Locke turned serious, We think one of our officers was killed this morning.

Think! What do you mean by that?

"We’ve found his car with a bullet hole in the windshield. From the looks of the inside, Homicide says it’s pretty obvious he took a round through the head. They say he’s got to be dead, and that it’s now a case of finding the corpse."

Kurtz frowned, Who was it? He was looking at Tana who was sitting on the edge of his chair.

"His name is Burtrum Graybrook, and he works for Leo Hadley in Records. Do you remember him? The sergeant was a big help to us on our West Virginia task force."

"I remember Leo. Does he have any idea why anyone would want to knock off this guy … Graybrook?"

"Not in the least, the officer has been a pretty good worker since he was assigned to Records. He’s married, but no kids. Graybrook hasn’t had any problematic-issues, excepting his temper. That’s why he’s been in Records for the past couple years."

Oh? What happened?

"Graybrook got into a fight on a traffic stop back in >82. It was down in the hillbilly section of the 5th Precinct. When it was over, two of them ol’ boys were in the hospital with multiple fractures. The commander at the 5th decided it wasn’t Graybrook’s fault. He felt it was just a slight overreaction. The Chief disagreed, and Graybrook was reassigned. Since then, he has been a model officer."

Where did they find his car?

"Number Five … it was down at the foot of Meadowbrook. Someone had dumped his new Riviera in a field, a few yards north of the river. Looks as though it’s a popular spot to drop off junk cars, washers, dryers and a whole lot of other crap. Two patrol officers assigned to 5-3 thought the new Riviera might be stolen. Anyway, I just thought I’d give you a heads up. I figured you might want to give Leo Hadley a call. Besides, it’s been a while since I have talked to you. Let’s have lunch one day."

After hanging up, Kurtz filled Tana in on the details. "Did you ever run into this guy,