Above the Law by J. F. Freedman

an obligatory courtesy, because he was the local sheriff, a former FBI agent, it’s his county, and he’s not a man you deny—basically, he’d forced his way into this. But this was a federal bust, Miller had no standing, and everyone knew it, including him. If it was up to Jerome, Miller would be home in bed, sound asleep.
    Jerome pointed to a hill that overlooked the compound. “There.”
    Miller looked at where the DEA honcho had pointed. He shook his head.
    “That’s too far away. I can’t observe anything from there.”
    Jerome could feel his gut tightening. This was an incredibly delicate and dangerous undertaking; he needed grief from some eighty-year-old has-been like he needed the Tijuana runs. But he held his tongue—he didn’t have time to get into a personality riff with this old man.
    “What do you suggest. Sheriff?”
    They’re trapped in there. Hunker down and starve ’em out, Miller wanted to say. But that wasn’t the point of this exercise. If they went that route, establishing a beachhead and digging in for the long haul, it would become a public siege, with all the attendant problems that had befallen those of recent history. Press up the wazoo. Pro and con interest groups. Meddlesome congressmen. The goal here was surprise, overwhelm, get in and get out.
    One caution Miller wanted to give Jerome—if Lopez is your only source of information, you could be so far up shit’s creek all the paddles in California won’t save you. His reliability quotient is zero. And never let him out of your sight.
    Miller said none of that. The question had been rhetorical. “Where are you going to be?” he asked the honcho.
    “First one in the door,” Jerome told him.
    Miller nodded. Jerome had to lead the parade, his ego wouldn’t let him do otherwise.
    “How’s about I follow you in?” Miller suggested. He gestured toward Bearpaw. “My deputy can stay up here, see the overall picture.”
    Jerome had been blindsided—he should have realized this crafty old soldier would try to finagle a way to be in the middle of the action. But he wasn’t going to allow that to happen.
    “No.” He shook his head firmly. “This is a federal takedown. We told you that when we briefed you. You’re not part of the game plan,” he added bitingly.
    The sheriff didn’t acknowledge the insult. “I’ll find my own spot, then,” he assured Jerome. “Away from the center.”
    “Good.” Jerome turned away.
    Miller looked at Jerome’s retreating back. Goddamnit, he was uneasy about this raid. Part of his trepidation was historical—government agencies, particularly these agencies, had screwed up too many times. They were too arrogant, cocksure. And they were bulls in a china shop, their instinct was always to charge in, especially if the plan wasn’t working as they’d penciled it.
    More ominously, their mission was at cross-purposes with itself. Breaking into an armed citadel and physically destroying a major crime ring was one thing; taking a prisoner alive was entirely different. One was a balls-to-the-wall enterprise, no holds barred, individual consequences be damned. The other was an act of extreme delicacy. The two were antithetical, 180 degrees.
    He also felt, in his bones, that Jerome had badly downplayed the possibility of armed resistance. Men like those inside the compound don’t fall asleep at the wheel. They may be sloppy around the edges, but they’re always on the alert. Their survival depends on it.
    Hubris. The man’s ego was too damn big. Jerome felt that he was impervious, that he had it knocked.
    Miller was a student of the history of war. He’d analyzed the classic battle philosophies, Thucydides, Sun-Tzu, Bismarck, Robert E. Lee, his personal hero. Attacks on an unknown enemy, without having reliable sources of intelligence, often led to crushing defeats: witness Lee’s at Gettysburg, caused by Jeb Stuart’s not being on time with the correct information about the size and scope of