Nate said to Joe, “Forget for an hour that you’re law enforcement. You’re a stranger in a strange land. Roll with it.”
“We don’t want to blow it when we’re so close,” Geronimo said.
“Think of the cops as backup,” Joe said. “We might need their firepower.”
Geronimo shook his head. He wasn’t convinced.
“Do what you have to do,” Nate said. “But don’t screw this up. It’s our only chance.”
Joe was well aware of that as he punched in 911 on his phone and raised it to his ear. Although he didn’t know his way around downtown Portland, and all of the one-way streets they took confused him, he knew they were minutes away from the cache location and Axel Soledad.
“This is the 911 emergency network,” said the woman on the other end of the line. “What is your emergency?”
Her tone wasn’t as serious or urgent as Joe had expected. She had a distinctive nasally voice.
“I want to report a couple of suspicious men driving an out-of-state van downtown. Colorado plates. We think they’re supplying weapons to potential rioters.”
“What is your location?”
Joe peered out the window and saw a street sign. It was covered with stickers, but he could make it out.
“Burnside Street,” he said.
“We’re well aware of the situation developing,” the dispatcher said wearily. “There have been many calls.”
“It’s not just the protesters,” Joe said. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. We think the men in the van are here to escalate the situation by giving the protesters guns and live ammunition. You’ve got to send units to stop them now.”
“Units are on standby, sir. Order of the mayor.”
Joe was poleaxed. “On standby?”
“Yes, sir. Welcome to Portland. But thank you for your call, sir. We’re carefully monitoring the situation near North Park.”
“Then do something about it.”
“We get these calls every night and—well, it’s about manpower. It’s frustrating, to say the least.”
“People may get hurt, ma’am,” Joe said.
“Thank you for calling 911 emergency dispatch.”
The call dropped and Joe lowered his phone to his lap.
“You tried,” Nate said from the back.
Joe turned to his window with despair as Geronimo cornered the van on a side street. As he did, Joe got a glimpse down an opening between two boarded-up buildings and he saw it: the nose of a black transit van poking out between two brick structures.
“Did you see that?” he asked Geronimo.
“See what?”
“Axel’s van. He’s right on the other side of these buildings in some kind of alley.”
Geronimo turned immediately and raced the wrong way down Burnside.
Joe looked to his left to see knots of antifa gathering under the lights of an open park. He looked to his right to see the small square behind the hotel.
The headlights of the Yarak van swept the square as Geronimo turned in to reveal Axel standing next to it with an armful of long rifles and shotguns.
“That’s him,” Geronimo bellowed. “You ready?”
Joe nodded, but he wasn’t sure he was ready. Ready for what? His mouth was too dry to speak.
Geronimo steered with his left hand while he grasped his shotgun from the console between the seats. Joe reached down to assure himself where the safety was located behind the trigger guard of his Remington Wingmaster, even though he’d been familiar with it for a dozen years.
“Don’t hit the van or shoot up my birds,” Nate said from the back.
The Yarak van’s front tires bounced over the curb into the square and Joe held on. Geronimo positioned the van to block Axel’s vehicle from the front, then slammed on the brakes.
“Go,” Geronimo said as he opened his door and jumped out.
Joe looked up to see Axel frozen in place in the headlights, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly parted. He’d been caught by surprise.
Joe bailed out of the passenger side, racking his shotgun as his boots hit the pavement.
Axel still stood there. His eyes narrowed.
Joe said, “Lower the weapons and put your hands behind your head.”
In his peripheral vision, Joe saw Geronimo to his left with his triple-barrel shotgun trained on Axel. Geronimo said softly to Joe, “Aim low. He might be wearing body armor.”
Axel said, “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”
“Oh, I know.”