Enemies Domestic

Eight

The Watering Hole Saloon,  Tonopah, Arizona

Donnie had been isolated with his thoughts for almost an hour as he and Nick had only a few, essential communications to avoid revealing themselves to anyone walking in or around The Watering Hole's parking lot. With that much time on his hands and very little to occupy his mind, Donnie had been mentally working his way every conceivable reason Cleveland and his white supremacist friends might be working with the Sinaloa cartel. Were they really that willing to abandon professed beliefs for money? Was there a third party, a cut-out, who kept the two groups from knowing about each other's involvement? Maybe that was Charlie Sheen's role? Hell, maybe this was all a coincidence and there was nothing going on between the racists and the cartel. Donnie chewed on that one for a while, and decided to label that possibility as "least probable." What if they were after much larger objectives that allowed them to rationalize the partnership? He also knew such men could easily justify their means to reach an end. Among the possibilities, Donnie feared the two groups had found common ground against a greater, more threatening enemy. That could only be a federal target, he surmised, 'cuz the only thing white supremacists hate more than non-whites, Jews, Muslims, and, well, everyone else, is the federal government.

Donnie hoped his assessment was wrong, but he imagined few other viable causes to allow such antithetical criminals to unite. Domestic terrorists were a growing problem in the United States, one which he and other law enforcement officials struggled to identify, combat, and preemptively defeat before they carried out their criminal plots.

"Movement." Nick's voice brought Donnie's mind back to the parking lot and his surveillance detail.

"Got 'em," he replied as he saw the two unknown white males descend the front steps. After making a quick note, hang arounds leave 2235 hrs, Donnie snapped a few photos of Charlie Sheen and the other un-neck-tattooed white male walking to and entering an old Ford truck. As the rust bucket backed out toward the highway, he shot a quick photo of the rear plate, but couldn't read it at that distance. Donnie brought the binoculars up and read the license plate to Nick just before the truck departed northbound on Old US 80. He knew Nick, in turn, would feed the vehicle descriptions and directions of travel to mobile DEA agents waiting on nearby roads to, hopefully, follow the suspect vehicles and learn where they each landed.

Only a few minutes later, Donnie saw the two unidentified white supremacists exit the bar and quickly depart on beat-down, kick-start Harleys. Almost immediately behind them, Cleveland emerged onto the bar's porch and descended the steps toward his Bronco. Despite getting photos of all three men, Donnie wasn't close enough to read the motorcycle plates, even with the binos.

As the three white supremacists left the parking lot, Donnie didn't expect to gain much further intel tonight. With a general absence of vehicles on the empty desert roads at this hour to allow the agents to effectively follow their suspects, Donnie knew he might have gathered nothing more than one new license plate. Although having initially requested a police helicopter to aid with tonight's operation, his supervisor wouldn't approve it until they first tried to gather the necessary intel without expensive air support.

Once the target vehicles departed and their descriptions had been passed along to the few mobile agents, Donnie and Nick waited to leave to avoid the appearance of following the target vehicles. Only five minutes passed before the mobile agents announced over an encrypted DEA radio channel that the last of the four suspects had just ditched their tail. No new intel, another six hours of wasted effort, man-hours, and lost sleep, Donnie thought, gotta get approval for that helo.

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