Archangel of Sedona (23 page)

Less than a second later I raked the four men in front. I focused on fire discipline, absorbing the recoil, and not allowing the barrel of the Kalashnikov to rise. All four went down firing back. Several of their rounds hit the tree that I used for cover. The bullets tore branches and peppered the ground all around me.

As Eddie concentrated his fire on the two vehicles, I worked back to the left hitting each of the men on the ground at least twice. None of them got up.

I emptied the magazine in 30 seconds. The bolt on an AK does not lock back when empty. I racked it to confirm. I released the spent mag. I reached to left. The spare mag was not where I’d set it down. I didn’t have time to look for it. I set the AK down and reached for the shotgun, glad that I’d taken the time to lock and load it.

Eddie did his usual fine work with the M14. He cleaned out the two thugs in the ATV. They didn’t know what hit them. The last thing I saw before we stopped firing was the sniper in the Jeep absorbing the impact of two bursts of Eddie’s M14. I’d not taken him out with my first shots.

I surveyed the scene. I looked around for Father Pat and the dog but couldn’t see them. I counted seven assailants down. I couldn’t locate the driver of the Jeep.

I called to Eddie. He said he was fine. We’d given up our positions, so I felt that we lost nothing in communicating. There was still a homicidal maniac out there somewhere.

We waited. Nothing. Five long minutes passed. I had to pee. Couldn’t risk it.

I heard a slight scraping sound behind me. I knew it was the driver. I couldn’t fathom how he got out of the kill zone and behind me.

I turned as fast as I could to bring the shotgun to bear. Steve, the killer, was on me before I could raise the weapon. I’m strong, but Steve was stronger. We rolled around and wrestled with the shotgun before he wrenched it from my hands. I was in too close to shoot. He hit me across the head with the barrel.

It was a glancing blow. He drew blood. I saw stars. He tried to stand up, but I grabbed his shirt and pulled him down. I reached for my Glock. He knocked it from my hand with the butt of the shotgun.

I always carry a K-Bar lock-blade knife. I keep it clipped to the inside of my right pants’ pocket. I can open it and bring it to bear in less than a second.

I pulled the knife with my right hand, as I gripped the barrel of the shotgun with my left. I stabbed Steve in the abdomen, causing him to cry out and pull the trigger of the shotgun three times. I twisted the knife, pulled it out, and stabbed him again in his left side. I sank all four inches of blade, leaving the knife in him. He howled and pulled at the gun with all his might.

Though I had a grip on the hot barrel of the shotgun with my left hand, and I had stabbed Steve twice, he pulled the barrel from my grasp, firing another two shells in the process. Still too close to bring the weapon to bear; he rapped me hard across the right side of my face with the barrel. He opened up my cheek. I felt a tooth break.

In desperation, Steve tried to pull back. I felt my waistband and located Gretchen’s .38. Before Steve could turn the barrel on me, I pulled the revolver. Firing as fast as possible, I shot Steve five times in the face, throat, and neck.

Blood, bone, brain, sinew, muscle, and tissue burst from every wound spraying everything around us. Steve, withered, dropped the shotgun onto my chest, and slipped into a heap next to me, his dark red blood pumping in streams, soiling my shirt, pants, and the ground.

Eddie ran up. He looked me over as I tried to stand.

“Tony, I’d have shot him, but he was too close. Couldn’t risk hitting you.”

I had a hard time talking. I couldn’t breathe. I worried that my jaw might be broken. Small streams of blood poured from the top of my head, my cheek, and my mouth.

“Geez, Tony. This guy’s a mess.”

“What do you expect? I shot him five times in the head,” I slurred.

“Why?” Eddie asked.

“Those were all the bullets I had in the gun!” I garbled through my bloody mouth.

Eddie made me sit down. He retrieved the medical kit and tended to my wounds. He stopped the bleeding, covering the open cuts on my head and cheek.

“The cut on your head is superficial. It’ll be fine. You’ll need some sutures on this cheek. It looks like oral surgery on your jaw. He fucked up your tooth.”

“I was none too gentle with him,” I said.

Eddie found small cotton rolls in the kit. We jammed them into my mouth. I looked like I had the world’s largest chaw. The bleeding slowed.

I stood up after taking two of the industrial-strength pain pills from the kit. I recovered the AK, shotgun, the Glock, and my knife from Steve’s side. I located the missing magazine. An errant round from one of the killers had sent it flying about ten feet.

Eddie and I reloaded our weapons. We walked over to the ambushed caravan. We examined the other seven men. All were as dead as their leader. I walked over to a tree and peed for a full minute.

When we were about to go looking for Father Pat, he came up with the dog in tow. The dog acted as obedient and meek as could be.

“What happened to you, Tony?”

“You should see the other guy, Padre,” I garbled through the cotton.

“What’s with the dog?” Eddie asked, noting for the first time that the priest was bleeding from deep scratches on both his forearms. There were no bite marks.

“I choked him out,” Father said.

“You did what?”

“In Northern Ireland,” Father began, “We learned that the Brits train dogs to go for your arm. If you keep cool, you can lure the dog in and grab it by the throat. This beast weighs at least eight stone. But once I got my hands on his throat and lifted him, all he could do is scratch at me. He passed out from the lack of oxygen. When he woke, he was disoriented. He’ll cooperate with us now.”

Eddie took care of Father Pat’s arms while my painkillers kicked in. The dog curled at the feet of the priest. I checked my phone. We still had no bars.

When Eddie finished, the three of us pulled the dead men from the vehicles and lined them up on the side of the path. Eddie had humped his camera, so he photographed everything. We gathered all their weapons and put them in the back of the Jeep.

Eddie tried to start the Jeep. It was useless. He opened the hood.

“Mother fuck!” Eddie swore. “Some dickhead fired into the engine. It’s kaput.”

“Looks, like the work of an M14,” I said, looking over Eddie’s shoulder, not wanting to take the blame.

“More like poorly aimed shots from an AK,” Eddie said. “Anyway, in battle, shit happens. Let’s see if the ATV works. I don’t feel like humping this crap out of here.”

The ATV started. Blood and human tissue covered the seats, but we weren’t choosy. We transferred the weapons to the carrier on the back of the ATV.

While we loaded the vehicle, I realized that we’d compromised this crime scene. But we needed to appropriate a vehicle and get medical assistance. We couldn’t leave the weapons in the forest unsecured. We had no way to call the authorities. We’d cross the crime scene bridge with the deputies who came to our aid.

Father said prayers over the dead men, and asked for forgiveness for what Eddie and I had done. I didn’t feel the slightest guilt. I didn’t see the need for forgiveness. In the last two days, we’d fought off a dozen homicidal madmen. It might have been the medication or the adrenalin but I felt high, six beers high.

We got into the ATV and Father Pat called the dog in German. The Alsatian jumped into the empty seat.

“I think I’ll call him ‘Adolf,’” Father Pat said. “Like the dog you saw at the chapel all those years ago.”

“That dog’s name was Rommel, Father,” I said.

“But Gretchen said...”

“Long story, Father. I’ll explain another time.”

I pulled out my phone and turned it on. After entering my code, I opened the Trimble app. I hit the icon for our position and created a waypoint, so that I could give the local Sheriff the exact coordinates of the battlefield. Eddie started the ATV, put it into gear, and we motored down the track past the bodies of the killers.

“Pat,” Eddie began loud enough for the kid to hear in the back of the ATV.

“Yes, Eddie.”

“What possessed you to go out in front of those killers like that? You had to know how dangerous that was.”

“It’s an old trick. Let the enemy see you. They chase. Your mates ambush them.”

“I don’t want to know where you learned that,” Eddie said.

“Gentlemen, do you think that’s all of them? By my count, you’ve killed twelve men over the last few days.” Father said.

“I hope so, but I’m not so sure,” I said.

“Hope for the best, and expect the worst. That’s my motto,” Eddie added.

Less than 20 minutes later, we pulled into the campgrounds around White Horse Lake. I had three bars on my phone. We could communicate. We stayed away from the other campers. I called the emergency number.

“Coconino County Sheriff, what’s your emergency?”

I removed the cotton from my mouth so I could speak better.

“My name is Tony Giordano. I’m law enforcement from Florida. Two of my friends and I have been on a hike to Schnebly Tank. Some unknown assailants killed our guide there. His body and the bodies of at least three of the assailants are still there. He’s retired from your agency, Detective David Fleet. We couldn’t communicate with you guys, so we ran from the killers.

“We went west,” I continued. “Before we could get to White Horse Lake, the rest of the homicidal crew caught up with us. We shot it out with them. I’m wounded. My other two friends are OK. Eight more of the bad guys are dead. We left their bodies on the trail. I have the coordinates.”

“Mr. Gordani,” the operator started.

“It’s Giordano, miss,” I snapped.

“Sir, if this is a joke, you should know that there are severe criminal penalties for false police reports in Arizona.”

“Miss, I wish this was a false report.”

“You say you’re wounded?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” We’re at White Horse Lake Campground. We need assistance.”

“We’ll dispatch a unit from Williams immediately. How will we recognize you?”

“One white male, sixties, five-feet-eleven, one-ninety-five, brown / grey and bleeding from three head wounds. One black male early sixties, six-foot-one, one-ninety, brown / black and driving a shot up ATV. One white male, thirty-something, five-feet-eleven, one-seventy, blue / red and Irish as Patty’s Pig. We’ll be sitting here bleeding on the northwest corner of the grounds.”

“Dispatching a unit now,” the operator said.

“Thanks,” I said, as I rang off. I started keying in Gretchen’s cell phone.

Chapter Thirteen

August 31, 2013, 3:00 p.m.

Coconino County Sheriff’s Office

Conference Room #2

911 E. Sawmill Road

Flagstaff, Arizona

The Coconino County Sheriff’s conference room reminded me of scores of similar meeting places in federal and state venues all over the country. It had a long, maple-stained wooden table, suitable for gathering a dozen attendees. The chairs were utilitarian and uncomfortable. They’d painted the walls a neutral off-white. Staged photos of deputies, employees, little-league teams, and police equipment covered the walls.

The room was too cold for my attire. The hospital had allowed me to keep a set of their dark blue surgical scrubs and slippers. The Sheriff had seized all of my clothes and equipment as evidence. I had nothing to complain about. I was safe, dry, and warm enough. The fact that I was still alive was a miracle of biblical proportions.

Where I come from, the Sheriff has over 1,200 law enforcement officers, 900 detention deputies, and 1,400 civilians to help police the unincorporated portions of our county with a population of over 1,200,000 permanent residents and millions of tourists and travelers passing through each year. He and his people do a superb job in a jurisdiction the size of Rhode Island.

In contrast, the Sheriff of Coconino County has fewer than 70 sworn deputies to patrol the second largest county in the nation with more square miles than Massachusetts. Both Sheriffs have excellent reputations in the communities that they serve because of the courage, dedication, and professionalism of their deputies and support staffs.

It is a daunting challenge to be the first responders with so few resources over so vast an area. In Flagstaff, the local police number around 100. They collocate with the Sheriff at the Saw Mill Road operational center.

I sat in the middle of this law enforcement complex, awaiting my fate and recalling the events of the day before.

Almost 40 minutes after my call from White Horse Lake, a unit from the Williams substation arrived. The deputy conducted a cautious and professional evaluation. He assessed my injuries, but insisted that we surrender all weapons to him. We helped him to secure the cache in the back of his four-wheeler.

Our cooperation and my credentials allowed him a degree of comfort regarding our intentions but—based on the violence that I described in my recorded call—he never relaxed his guard. I told you that he was a pro.

In light of my condition, he transported us to Williams after recommending to his dispatcher that the Sheriff send resources to Schnebly Tank and to the coordinates that I’d furnished for the site of the second firefight.