by Samson Weld
It got weirder when Deanna morphed into Detective Bellucci. Damn, she looked good in those tight jeans and boots. And she also begged him to give up vigilantism, while Osorio mocked them all.
“Oh man, I like it better when I don’t remember my dreams,” he grumbled, throwing his feet over the side. He hit the shower, memories of his talk with Bellucci swimming in his head. Why couldn’t he suppress the doubts she awakened within? “She doesn’t understand. She thinks like a cop.”
That wasn’t a compliment.
He knew he’d screwed up if the cops had him on their radar. All of his carefully laid plans went out the window. Time for the endgame. Ash had to take Osorio down before the cops arrested him.
The shower was hot and invigorating, despite his new doubts. Thanks, Bellucci.
Ash wondered why she simply didn’t arrest him. His fight wasn’t against cops and he was sure she had backup surrounding them. She did seem to empathize with him, but ultimately Bellucci was a police officer. His way was the antithesis to hers.
He didn’t think Deanna would approve either.
Just as he feared, as soon as women injected themselves into his life, his resolve began to falter. Feral Ash killed bad guys. Domestic Ash cherished and protected. He couldn’t let them divert him from his chosen path. Milly and the boys had to be avenged.
Maybe Bellucci was that rare cop who really believes in the law and justice? He frowned, heading for his closet. Kinda makes me regret what I’m about to do.
It was time to hurt Osorio in a different way, and maybe confuse him a bit. Time to implement Plan B.
The Russian angle.
He dressed in long johns under jeans and a red flannel shirt, and his hunting boots. It was cold and going to get a lot colder before he was through. Then he went to his armory and put on a double shoulder holster, with a pair of Glock 19s.
Ash double-checked the small black nylon rucksack. Everything he’d need was inside, so he set it aside and booted up the laptop. He checked a couple sites, where he had bids. One of them filled him with satisfaction.
“Awesome. I got it,” he whispered. The Aston Martin Virage was just what he needed. It was in Houston.
He pulled on a very old Army surplus field jacket, with the insulation layer inside. It was olive drab and probably from the 1970s. Green and black sergeant stripes where sewn onto the upper arms. Shouldering the ruck, Ash headed out to the barn. He fired up the Kawasaki street bike, putting on a racing helmet with mirrored wind guard. It was going to be a cold trip, but necessary.
Once again, Ash took I-30 all the way into Dallas. Renting that old farm was the best decision he’d ever made. It might be a ways outside of the city, but the access was amazing. He reviewed his plan while driving, weaving in and out of traffic. That racing bike was super fast, and it couldn’t be traced back to him.
It was stolen, purchased on the black market, with out of state plates.
Once again, he hit the Mix Master. The morning rush hour had already peaked, but traffic proved heavy anyway. The motorcycle made it easier, even if he did piss off a dozen other drivers. Only, this morning Ash veered off I-30 and hit I-35 South, heading down into the Oak Cliff neighborhood.
Most Dallasites thought of Oak Cliff like other people thought of the southside of Chicago, or gum under your shoe. Ash knew better.
Oak Cliff was really more than a mere neighborhood, since it used to be a suburb of Dallas which was annexed. There were good and bad areas, just like in any city. Ash even considered living there when he first arrived, and before he’d found the farm.
Illinois Avenue was just a short trip down I-35. He turned west up Illinois. Ash drove through mixed residential, commercial, and some industrial areas. He drove more carefully as he approached his target. After driving over the railroad tracks, he moved into the left lane. Westmoreland Road was right up ahead, and his heart rate ramped up. His destination was only a short ride south and off Westmoreland.
The gate into Hernandez & Alba Auto Repair was open, dozens of wrecked cars and pickups inside. The main structure was a rusty corrugated steel building with five bays. One bay was open and Ash spotted a late model Chevy utility van backed into it.
“I’m late,” he muttered.
He reached back and opened the ruck. Two Uzi submachine guns sat on top. Spare magazines waited in his coat pockets. Ash watched long enough to see men loading something in the back of the brown van. He hit the gas as soon as they closed the back doors.
Chapter 26
Ash raced straight at the open bay door. The driver opened his door, and then froze when he spotted the motorcycle headed straight at him. He was reaching inside his coat when Ash hit the brakes and skidded into the door.
The impact dismounted Ash, but it also slammed the door into the driver. The Hispanic man went down and didn’t get up while Ash rolled to his feet and reached back into the ruck. His hands came back with a pair of Uzis, locked and loaded.
“I am the Angel of Death!” Ash shouted in Spanish and opened fire.
Osorio owned that shop and Ash knew it was his main drug distributing hub. Everyone there might actually be a mechanic, but they were also drug dealers. Evil. Very bad hombres. To prove his point, one and all pulled weapons and returned fire.
That shop sounded like a war zone as Ash waded in, firing both Uzis in short bursts, left and right. Bodies littered the shop floor within seconds. Shouts and curses in Spanish filled the air, punctuated by sporadic gunfire.
“Ask Osorio if he remembers me now!”
Ash ducked behind a Chevy Impala when his Uzis locked back with empty magazines. He ejected, and quickly replaced the magazines. That short reprieve emboldened the workers, who quickly moved toward him through the shop, using the cars as cover.
“You know, someone is going to pay for all these bullet holes in your costumers’ cars,” Ash shouted. “And you know it won’t be the insurance companies. I bet the Better Business Bureau gets a lot of angry calls today and tomorrow.”
“You’re a real comedian, asshole,” someone shouted. “A dead comedian.”
Another voice shouted. “We have you surrounded and outnumbered. We’re going to kill you dead, motherfucker, so you better surrender.”
He shook his head woefully. “Hey, pendejo, you suck as a negotiator.”
His best estimate put his remaining foes at four. There were also several men down, but still alive. So the wounded could still be in play as well.
Ash darted across the shop, drawing fire as he ran. He took note of where the others were located, before dropping to slide behind a Nissan pickup. Running footsteps raced his way from two directions. Low-crawling under the pickup, he came up on the other side as a pair of Latino men reached the other side and opened fire on… nothing.
“Looking for me?” he asked as he lit them up.
They did a little jig as .45 Cal rounds ripped through their bodies, before dropping bonelessly.
“Ouch. Bet that hurt.”
His weapons locked back empty. It still surprised him sometimes just how fast automatic weapons could empty a magazine. This time, his adversaries weren’t going to give him time to reload.
Reaching into a toolbox, Ash pulled a heavy wrench out with his right hand, and a long screwdriver in the left. A short, stout Mexican skidded to a stop before him, leveling a six-shooter at him. Another came up behind him and began creeping up warily.
“Who is the pendejo now?” Osorio’s man sneered. “So stupid to bring a screwdriver to a gunfight.”
“Screw you,” Ash snapped and threw the screwdriver.
That flathead screwdriver found its target, the man’s left eye. Ash dropped to one knee and swiveled around as his victim screamed and pulled the trigger. His shot went wide, but startled the other Mexican.
Ash swung the wrench and struck his foe’s gun hand. The pistol went off, but missed. Somehow the guy kept the gun in hand. So Ash rushed the astonished man, striking him repeatedly about th
e face and shoulders, driving him back, back, back.
And then Mr. Screwdriver came screaming in.
Ash ducked when he saw him point his pistol at him. The half-blind man fired, missed, but killed his compadre. Spinning, Ash pounded the wrench into the man’s knee, and then smashed in his teeth with it. Grabbing his gun hand, Ash twisted the barrel up under the man’s chin.
“Eat lead.”
The top of the Mexican’s head exploded, raining blood and brains all over the shop. Ash twisted the six-shooter away as he crumbled to the floor. Then he tossed the gun away. It was empty anyway.
Returning to the van, Ash opened the back and checked to ensure it was the cargo he’d anticipated. It was. The cargo area was filled with cash, all in neat stacks of twenties, fifties, and hundreds. A lot of money. He smiled.
The best way to hurt Osorio was to take his money. This was going to drive him crazy.
A groan brought him back to the real world. Ash locked and closed the back doors. Heading around the side, he noticed the driver starting to wake. His hand was sliding inside his coat, going for his weapon. Ash pulled out a Glock and shot him.
After picking the keys off the floor, he stepped on the dead driver to help him into the driver’s seat. Tossing his ruck into the passenger’s seat, Ash peeled out of the shop and headed for the Westmoreland Greyhound bus station. He removed the motorcycle helmet before turning north on Westmoreland, driving normally.
The bus station was off Westmoreland and Davis Street, up in a strip mall. Ash parked as far from the street as possible before opening his ruck and dumping the contents in the back. Then he stuffed cash inside, before adding some more to his wallet. Finally, he removed his shoulder holster and left it behind as well.
That done, he locked up the van and headed into the bus station. The bus to Houston was waiting to leave. Ash bought a one-way ticket and got on.
Chapter 27
It was a beautiful morning. Osorio loved the way the early morning light reflected off the hoarfrost. Consuelo and Rojas waited in the living room. They rose up and followed him without a word.
He passed through the gourmet kitchen, sharing a good morning nod with his personal chef, Luis Gutierrez. The locally born Mexican-American prepared food almost as well as Osorio’s mother. Honestly, some things he made even better.
The dining room had a wonderful view of the pool, which was heated, so no ice. Osorio found his favorite mug filled with piping hot coffee, with just a hint of sugar. Luis had also set out a plate of cut fruit: mango, grapes, and bananas. After hanging his suit jacket on the back of his chair and then placing his Desert Eagle on the table, Osorio sat and started sampling the fruit.
Consuelo and Rojas joined him at the table.
“There you go, boss,” Luis said, setting a plate before him.
“Gracias, Luis,” he replied.
Two large huevos rancheros lay on the plate. Osorio loved the corn tortillas filled with fried eggs, chopped onions, and tomatoes. His chef liberally soaked everything in hot sauce, just the way he liked it. Rojas also received a plate with a pair of huevos rancheros, but Consuelo always asked for two fried eggs and bacon.
“Turn on the TV,” Osorio said. “I have money on last night’s Mavericks game.”
“Sorry, boss,” Luis said as he picked up the remote. “The Mavericks lost.”
Osorio grinned at Consuelo. “Who said I bet on the Mavericks?”
The local news came up, but the station was showing commercials. They began to eat in earnest. Rojas regaled them with stories of the women he met at the club, and all of the things they did for him in the VIP area. And then the news returned to the screen with an aerial view of a repair shop in Oak Cliff.
Osorio froze, eyes locked on the screen. “Is that…”
The news anchor confirmed his worst fear. “You’re seeing the view from Chopper 4 above the scene of the brutal gun battle this morning. Witnesses report a lone gunman rode a motorcycle into the Hernandez & Alba Auto Repair shop first thing this morning, and opened fire with automatic weapons. Our sources report seven dead. The gunman is still at large and considered extremely dangerous.”
Osorio turned to Consuelo, who was gawking at the TV. Then he looked at Rojas, who looked just as stunned.
“My money?” Osorio asked.
“I’m on it,” Consuelo said, reaching for his phone.
It was still early, and the police hadn’t held a news conference yet. They went to their reporter on the scene, Hannah Benes.
“Yes, Jeff and Lara, it’s still pretty chaotic here,” Hannah said. “As you said, witnesses say a lone gunman rode a motorcycle into the Hernandez & Alba Auto Repair shortly after they opened the front gate, and opened fire inside with automatic weapons. Our sources report seven dead inside. The gunman is not thought to be among the dead. He is still at large and considered extremely dangerous.”
The bronzed-skin Latina was also their weekend morning anchor. She stood outside the entrance to the shop and Osorio could see all of the law enforcement personnel milling around behind her.
If there truly was seven dead, then that meant all six of his men inside, plus the driver, were dead. No one was present to protect all of the drugs stored there. Millions of dollars worth of drugs.
“I don’t see the van,” Osorio said when the cameraman panned away from the reporter, framing the lone open bay door. It was empty. No van. He looked at Rojas “Find out where it is. Did they get the money out of there before the shootout?”
Last night’s accounting said they were moving a little over a million seven hundred thousand up to his money laundering people in Oklahoma. After the vigilante shut down his dairy drug distribution with Charlie’s murder, he needed this distribution center and the money it generated even more. Indeed, all of the drugs stored at the dairy had been moved to the repair shop over the past week.
“Someone is trying to put me out of business,” he rasped.
It was just a minor setback, but others would swoop in to fill the drug supply void. If he couldn’t set up another distribution center, with enough product to meet his buyers’ needs, then he’d take a big hit long term. Hell, taking out his rival’s distribution centers was how he had taken over as the predominant drug lord in Dallas.
“I’m not so sure this is the work of a vigilante,” Osorio said. “Is someone trying to take me down? Who has the resources to supplant my operations?”
Rojas shrugged. “The Russians.”
His brain went into overdrive. Had the Russians hired a “vigilante” to take him out? Was that the real reason they were experiencing distribution issues? Were they in fact stockpiling drugs in preparation of usurping him?
Osorio looked up at the TV, still showing the helicopter view of the crime site. His hand darted out, picked up his Desert Eagle, and fired five quick shots into the TV. The .50 Cal pistol sounded like a cannon in that enclosed space.
Rojas, Consuelo, and Luis just stared at him.
“Find out who did this!” He glared at the now dead TV. “I’ll skin the man responsible alive.”
Picking up his phone, Osorio checked his contacts, tapped on one, and called PD Insurance. An American answered after just two rings.
“Why are you calling me here?” he whispered.
“Meet me at the usual spot. One hour,” Osorio said. “You better have answers.”
He ended the call before his man inside the Dallas Police Department could respond. Osorio stood up and put on his jacket. He then headed for the door. Consuelo and Rojas followed, both still on their phones. The rest of his men stood by the three Escalades.
“The driver isn’t answering,” Rojas said. “We have to assume either the gunman stole your money, or the police have it.”
The trip to downtown took the better part of two hours. Rush hour traffic and a car wreck slowed them down. A familiar white Dodge waited at their usual meeting place and the three Escalades rolled to a stop behind it. Blocking it.
“What’s the deal, man?” Cagle demanded. “You know it’s dangerous to meet like this?”
The drug lord’s temper exploded. He pulled his large, heavy pistol out from under his waistband and slapped it up side Cagle’s head. The dirty cop was spun around to sprawl atop the truck of his car. Rojas and Consuelo grabbed the detective’s arms, yanking him back up.
“Listen to me,” Osorio hissed, eyes filled with fury. He punched Cagle in the belly. “I pay you good money to protect me. I’m not feeling protected right now.” He pounded another fist into the cop’s stomach. “You better have answers, pinche cabron.”
Cagle coughed and gasped, face beat red. He waited for the cop to regain his breath, but not very patiently. The Desert Eagle was back in his waistband, but if Cagle didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear…
“You have a very pretty wife, Cagle,” Osorio said, low and menacingly. “And beautiful children. I’d hate for anything to happen to them.”
The detective gawked at him, a look of horror spreading across his face. Cagle knew that Osorio didn’t bluff. In fact, he usually went far beyond his threats. The cop began to shake.
“I’m doing my best. I promise,” Cagle gasped out. “We’re closing in on the guy responsible.”
Osorio drove another fist into the cop’s belly. “Closing in is not good enough.”
“Have they found any drugs at the repair shop?” Consuelo asked.
“Yeah, a shit ton,” Cagle said. “That’s all I know. It’s not my case, but I do know they’ve already called the Feds in.”
“Meaning?” Osorio asked, eyes narrowing.
“Meaning, I’m afraid the Feds will take possession of all confiscated drugs. I don’t think we’ll be able to get them back to you,” Cagle said. “But your man in that department will have a better idea on it.”
