Attention readers: I made significant changes to the last third of this story. Unfortunately, this means the story now has seven chapters instead of six and the ending is different than any version you may have read in beta.
It also means that this chapter is a bit longer than the others, but bear with it. I think you’ll be surprised.
This is part six of a six-part seven-part serialized mystery story. If you forgot where we left off, see Coyotes in Winter Part 5. For the first part, see Coyotes in Winter Part 1.
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“…I don’t get it, Rossi. You saw action. You can concealed-carry. Why don’t you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m supposed to be a nurse.”
“For a guy who—” Her voice drifted off.
We’d both seen it at the same time.
At first, I thought I’d seen a large bird dart across the road, toward the diner. But it changed direction abruptly and hovered near the corner of the building. I lowered the window and heard the soft, distinctive brrrrrr of powerful electric motors.
“They’re using a drone,” I said. “They’ve… been using drones.”
Lopez shook her head, astonished, watching the drone circle the restaurant.
“Son of a bitch,” Lopez said. “That must be how they avoid us.”
“Not only us. Avoid other cops and immigration. Doesn’t explain everything. But it sure goes a long way.”
We’d used drones in the Army to scout enemy positions so I was familiar with how to use them. As I watched, the drone pilot made mistakes. They didn’t scan the entire parking lot. They didn’t check behind the snow drifts, so for the time being, Lopez and I hadn’t been discovered. A few minutes later, the drone zipped straight back across the highway, back into the field, and dropped behind an embankment.
“That wasn’t very thorough,” I said, trying to sound hopeful.
Lopez ticked off a mental checklist. “Sloppy recon. Sloppy approach. Fuentes said that Shawn was at work. Probably in a hurry to meet a girl. As men can be.”
“You think that Shawn and Shay…?”
“What, you were thinking Frank and Shay? Just because a man and woman are together doesn’t mean there’s something there.”
“Well…”
From the embankment where we last saw the drone, an old brown Ford Explorer came up. I recognized it as the same Explorer that we’d seen a few minutes before. The same one, in fact, that we’d seen going back and forth past the diner. There must have been a low spot, one we’d overlooked, behind the embankment that blocked the view of the Explorer from the diner.
“Tell me,” Lopez said, “that’s not the same damn car we’ve been looking at for the past couple of months.”
“Would it matter?”
She cursed again. “You sure you’re not carrying?”
“Sorry.”
“Get in the back seat. Behind me. I’ll approach with the passenger side facing them. We’ll exit the car on my side.”
While I switched positions, she took out her phone.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m recording. It’s backed up to the cloud. If nothing else, at least someone will have that.”
The Explorer’s transmission whined as it lumbered back onto the highway. It entered the parking lot, tires hissing across the blacktop. Didn’t bother to circle the diner or check the lot. It stopped in front of the diner.
Right between my car and the thug’s truck.
We leaned forward, peering at the mud-splattered windows of the Explorer. Two men up front, a woman in the back.
“That woman’s got long black hair,” I said. “Could be the sister.”
Lopez started the engine. She reached back and squeezed my arm. We’ve got this.
And at that moment, like I always did, I believed her.
She levered the transmission into Drive, then slipped her phone, upside-down with the microphone showing, into the top front pocket of her coat.
We moved out from behind the snow pile, Lopez’s hybrid SUV in battery mode, with no engine noise to give us away.
At the diner, two men got out of the Explorer. They wore drab working-class winter gear. The driver had gray hair. The passenger wore an orange knit hat. Both were the same size, six-footers, built like regular guys, with lean faces.
Gray hair guy looked back and saw us. Called out to his buddy. Orange hat faced us. Gray hair and orange hat spread out, gray on our left and orange on our right. They kept the Explorer between them.
Calm, orderly, professional.
Lopez drove toward the gray-haired guy and forcing them to rethink their position. We tumbled out of her SUV. Lopez gritted her teeth and put herself behind the left front fender, covering the gray-haired guy. I went to the rear fender and wished I’d brought my revolver. I even checked the inner pocket of my coat on the off chance I’d put it there.
Next came the rattle of pistols being drawn and racked. Overlapped announcements of “Iroquois County Sheriff’s Office!” from Lopez and “Morris County Sheriff’s Department!” from the gray-haired guy.
Everyone stopped and made confused noises.
It’s strange how, over time, we fall victim to our own thinking. Behaviors become habits. Assumptions blind you to possibilities. Lopez and I thought the thefts from the clinic were a simple series of opportunistic crimes, so we’d approached them as if we were tracking petty thieves. And even when we learned that trafficking was involved, and that the criminals were organized, and that they might be aware of us, we still didn’t really think we were in danger. We’d worked petty crimes before, shook down a corner drug dealer or two, and even solved a cold case. If nothing else, Lopez was a cop, and even a disgraced cop had the authority of the law on her side.
We never thought we’d be facing another cop.
The gray-haired guy said, “Lopez? Riley Lopez?”
I peeked through the rear windows. We were all a car-length apart. The other deputy had stylishly trimmed gray hair and beard and the character lines around his eyes gave him an air of folksy authority, like a sheriff from a classic cowboy movie. The effect was broken, however, by the full-size Beretta he aimed at Lopez. It was an old M9 with a 15 round magazine and the earth-tone finish used in desert operations. I recognized it immediately, having qualified on the M9 during my training as a combat medic.
Something wasn’t right about that gun.
Inside the car, a Guatemalan woman watched us, eyes wide with panic. A few years younger than Fuentes. Undoubtedly her sister.
“Shawn… Foy?” Lopez kept her Glock aimed at the gray-haired guy, using the fender both to support her aim and take pressure off her knee.
“I heard you got fired,” he said.
Lopez ignored that. “Are you running this little trafficking gig?”
“What d’you mean? I’m meeting some friends.”
I said to Lopez, “You know these guys?”
“I’ve seen Shawn around. Not the other one.”
Shawn smiled uncertainly, lines creasing his weathered face. “What’s going on, Lopez? Why code three?”
“I think you know,” she said.
Shawn signaled to the guy in the orange hat. That guy began to carefully circle to my right, around the back of Lopez’s SUV, flanking us. The afternoon sun glinted on the stainless steel slide of his Colt.
“Orange hat. Stop there.” Lopez said.
“I don’t know your friend,” Shawn said. “I’d like to meet him. Come on out, buddy.” His voice was calm and pleasant. In another life he might have actually been successful in movies.
Orange hat had moved too far away from Lopez. She couldn’t cover both men by herself. She changed positions to aim at Orange Hat. To protect me. Because I’m an idiot.
“I said stop,” Lopez commanded.
The guy continued to move slowly forward, alternating aim between Lopez and me.
“Relax,” I said. “I’m unarmed.”
“Say again?” Shawn said.
Lopez’s voice fluttered. “He’s a civilian.” She cleared her throat. “Let’s talk about your dude in the orange hat. I haven’t seen him at any Homeland Security briefings.”
“My buddy here’s a civilian, too. Better than yours, I think. I don’t believe your friend is unarmed, Lopez. Why don’t you have him come out and show me?”
No surprise that Orange Hat wasn’t a cop. It made sense, with Shawn running an illegal operation. The guy could even have been an ex-con. Shawn could’ve had evidence on the guy to keep him in line.
Orange Hat moved closer. The muzzle of his Colt stayed on me. I stepped out from behind the SUV and raised my hands, palms outward, with my elbows tight against my chest. A gesture that could be interpreted as surrender. If he came a little closer, I could try and grab his gun. The trick worked on Shay because she hadn’t drawn it yet. This time it would be infinitely more dangerous.
I hoped that from her hiding spot in the diner, Fuentes could see me. I needed her distraction.
Nothing.
“Listen, Shawn,” Lopez said. “What happens next is up to you.” Using her cop training. Letting the suspect think he has options. Then leading him to the option you want. “It’s not bad right now. No one’s discharged a firearm. You might even be out on bail by midnight.”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
“I got Frank,” she said. “I got Shay. I got phone records.”
Shawn looked surprised, then worried, then made his face blank.
“And I got the Fuentes sisters.”
“Who?”
“The Guatemalans. You’ve got one in your car.”
“Right,” Shawn said, as if he’d forgotten.
“Let’s put the guns away and talk. I’m sure you can explain it all.”
“To you?”
“Me and the state cops. They’re on the way.”
“I don’t think so.” Anger brought an edge to his smooth voice. “I’ve heard about you. No one wants to back you up, Lopez. You shot a cop.”
“That story’s never gonna die,” Lopez grumbled.
I had an idea. The problem was that if Shawn knew anything about how drones flew, it probably wouldn’t work. I decided to try it anyway. I called out, “We’ve got GPS records on your movements.”
“How?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “That Explorer you drive is so old, it barely has a computer in it. And you’re careful to never use a phone or a fitness tracker with GPS. But you forgot about your drone. It has GPS, doesn’t it? And if it has GPS, something’s recording its position.” I oversimplified it, but he’d have to Google the answer to be sure.
His aim wavered. Again, his gun seemed odd. Police departments usually issue Glocks or Sig-Sauer pistols for service weapons, and for their off-duty, cops usually choose a smaller version of the same weapon in the same caliber. That way, you only need to memorize one set of controls and one takedown procedure and get used to one type of ammunition. Lopez’s service weapon was a big Glock 17 and her off-duty, the one she’d brought today and currently pointed at Orange Hat, was the smaller Glock 43. Some cops were gun enthusiasts and chose something unique for their off-duty like a James Bond-style Walther or a lightweight Ruger revolver. As a backup gun or the mark of an enthusiast, Shawn’s choice of a worn-out M9 military surplus pistol didn’t make sense.
A festive blue hat appeared the shadows beyond the far corner of the diner: Fuentes. How did she get out without making any noise? What the hell was she doing? I didn’t know if Lopez saw her. I wanted to signal to her to stay hidden, but I didn’t want to tip off Shawn or Orange Hat.
“Here’s what I think, Lopez,” Shawn said, working his own cop negotiating skills. “I think you’re in the same spot as me. Been that way our entire careers. Bottom rung. Riding around in circles all day. Writing tickets. We have to scoop up what we can. How many times do we look the other way, miscount a suspect’s money, forget to turn the camera on?”
“I see your point.”
“How are those knees? Your back? Your blood pressure? I gotta take medication every day. My doctor tells me I don’t need to retire. He says I got to retire.”
“I know the feeling,” Lopez said. She was trying to get him to talk, in hope that it would be recorded by her phone.
“Ever notice these people?” He nodded to the woman in the car. “Nobody does. We don’t want to see them. Think about it. An invisible labor force. People shipped from every country, to every country. Anywhere there’s crap work to do. I bet that nice coat you have was made by people like her.” He checked something in the corner of his vision. “So, I realized something a while back. These people need help. They get sick. They need protection. Someone to make sure the coyotes don’t treat them too badly. Someone like me.”
“That’s how you see it? You’re a Good Samaritan?”
“Yeah, actually. I’m helping them when nobody else will. And making some cash on the side. Nothing wrong with that. Helps with retirement. Don’t you want out of this, Lopez? Don’t you want it to end? I can cut you in. Maybe your friend, too. I can tell you’re thinking about it. What’s his deal? He some kind of retired fed? Ex-military?”

Lopez thought about it for a bit longer than I expected her to. “I meant he’s actually a civilian,” she said. “Not a cop, not a con, not any kind of operator.”
I raised my voice. “I’m a nurse.”
Shawn laughed quietly. “A nurse?” He made a tsking noise. “Lopez, didn’t your sergeant teach you to never bring a nurse to a gun fight?”
Nobody laughed.
In the pause that followed, I heard, distantly, sirens.
It made no sense. The nearest police barracks were over thirty minutes away.
Lopez, Orange Hat, and Shawn heard them, too.
We all seemed to hold our breaths, listening.
The sirens got louder.
And it came to me: The M9 in Shawn’s hands wasn’t a service weapon or an expression of his personality. It was simply a gun that couldn’t be traced to him. Something he could use and throw away.
“Well,” he sighed, “I thought it was funny.”
He fired his pistol twice, so quickly that the reports blended together. Orange Hat flinched. I ducked behind the SUV and watched, helplessly, as Lopez fell backward. Her body slapped the pavement hard and her gun popped out of her hand and clattered on the frozen ground.
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