Battle Cry

by Dustin Stevens

  Make sure the safety is off. Point. Shoot.

  Shoulder blades flat to the wall, I allow my eyes to drift shut. Cutting off one sense, I focus on another, listening intently.

  Behind me, I hear four distinct weapons continue to fire in a slow order. Always in pairs, they go off in bursts separated by a couple of seconds.

  Far from being soldiers, I doubt they showed up with infinite rounds at their disposal. Likely, they rolled up with whatever handgun they’ve procured over the years and at most a couple of spare magazines. Plus, whatever they grabbed from the men I’ve already put down.

  At this point, they have to be concerned with their stores running down. Most likely, it is a contributing factor to their decision to begin moving forward.

  Continuing to listen, I hear Tinley wheezing nearby. Marsh whispering for him to hang in there. The sound of the rain hitting the roof above.

  And, underlying it all, just the faintest hint of something much more distinct.

  The instant it finds my ears, my eyes pop open. A tiny jolt ripples upward, a new emotion adding to the adrenaline already coursing through me.

  Little by little, the sound grows steadily closer. With each passing moment, my original supposition is confirmed.

  Rocking my weight forward a tiny bit, I bounce lightly on my toes, preparing to move.

  Just beyond the door, the incoming fire continues to slow. Voices begin to call out, hints of uncertainty present as the sound grows ever louder.

  I wasn’t sure how long it would take Swinger to get back after I sent that text message. Depending on how fast he’d been going and the direction he’d chosen, it could be anywhere from a couple minutes to a quarter hour.

  Somehow, even at that, I’d known he would get here before Marsh’s backup ever did.

  Counting off the seconds, I wait until the sound of the oversized engine reaches a fevered pitch as the vehicle hits the parking lot. In unison, the sound of bullets thudding into the side of the motel falls away, their focus drawn toward the metal beast bearing down on them.

  This time, I don’t bother dropping to a knee as I rotate out to the side. Both guns held out at shoulder height, I squeeze off a pair of rounds from both before letting the Mark 23 drop from my grip.

  My fire drops two of the Wolves where they stand.

  Not to be outdone, Swinger gets the last two, plastering them across the chrome grille of his truck.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The first three cruisers blew past Byrdie without so much as glancing over. Traveling much faster even than the big truck that ran him off the road, they roared by with sirens blaring. Red and blue flashers whirled from the bar atop their roofs.

  Coupled with the trio of unanswered calls going to Snapper, there was no question where they were headed. What had them tearing through the night, oblivious to the conditions.

  It wasn’t until the fourth appeared that brake lights flared. Arriving a few moments after the others, the car was almost past Byrdie before it even spotted him. Hitting the brakes hard, the backend slid to either side. Water splashed out from the grooves worn into the road as it fought to come to a stop, overshooting him by at least twenty yards.

  As it did so, Byrdie felt his chest tighten. Clocking the car’s progress in his rearview, he gave his head a shake, letting his long hair fall over the shaved sides.

  Still dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve pullover, he checked to make sure there was absolutely nothing that would associate him with anything going on at the motel. No indication he was anything more than a poor schmoe stuck in the mud.

  Dropping into reverse, the cruiser had backed up until even with Byrdie. Not trusting that it wouldn’t end up in much the same position, the driver made no effort to pull off the side of the road. Or to even exit the vehicle.

  Instead, the officer merely rolled down his window, motioning for Byrdie to do the same.

  A directive that Byrdie now follows, even as every internal indicator he has tells him not to.

  Years of wearing the Wolves vest have imparted in him a certain code of personal conduct. Things that he needs to be wary of. People that he should have a heightened alertness around.

  Even now that he is without it, there is no erasing that evoked response. No way of simply turning off the fact that he has been taught emphatically that nothing good can come from interacting with the police.

  Especially with Lord-knows-what occurring just down the road.

  “Car trouble?” the cop opens. Barely out of his mid-twenties, bright red hair is cut short and pushed to the side. A matching moustache lines his upper lip.

  Resisting the urge to make a smart remark about the kid stating the obvious, Byrdie nods. “Yeah. All this water, lost control and slid off the side.”

  Nodding in agreement, the officer glances in either direction. “Yeah, you and a whole lot of others tonight. Roads out here just aren’t built to handle the weather.”

  Not sure how to respond to the kid’s insistence on speaking in platitudes, he settles for another nod. “I bet.”

  “You alright?” the officer asks. “Need a ride somewhere?”

  On the list of things Byrdie needs right now, top is to get ahold of Snapper. Right after, in order, are to know what is happening at the Valley View and a way of getting back to The Wolf Den.

  As for a ride in a cop car, that ranks somewhere between a root canal and an enema.

  “No, thanks,” Byrdie replies. Holding up his phone, he adds, “I called my brother. Just waiting for him to come pull me out.”

  The answer seems to be exactly what the young man was wanting to hear. Bobbing his head quickly, he again checks the road behind him.

  “Okay. I would stick around here until he comes, but I need to be getting on up the road.”

  Seeing an opportunity, both to gain a bit of information and to further solidify himself as a random stranded motorist, Byrdie asks, “Yeah, what’s going on? I saw three or four cop cars go tearing past me just a minute or two ago.”

  Flicking his gaze forward, the man pulls his chin back into his neck. Clearly not wanting to discuss the matter, he says only, “Not sure, exactly. We got a call about an incident on ahead here a piece.”

  Feigning ignorance, Byrdie keeps his features neutral. “Oh? Everything alright?”

  “Not sure,” the officer repeats. “Anyway, I should be getting on. Be safe. Turn on your flashers and stay in your vehicle until your brother gets here.”

  Byrdie pretends to have never even considered such a thing. His eyes widen slightly, his chin dipping just a fraction of an inch. “Yes, sir. Thanks for stopping, officer.”

  The interaction over, Byrdie waits until the officer takes off, his taillights flaring in the rearview mirror, before rolling up his window. Body still propped at an angle, he reaches into the passenger footwell. Grabbing up his McDonald’s sack from the night before, he snatches out a thin stack of napkins.

  Not ideal, but the best he has.

  Running the stack along the sill beside him, he sponges up some of the rainwater that had seeped in. Starting on the dashboard, he begins to scrub, hoping to distort any fingerprints he might have left.

  The officer didn’t have much in the way of information, but his mere presence tells Byrdie everything he needs to know.

  Things have gone to hell at the Valley View. There are too many cops, arriving much too soon, for that not to be the case.

  The front desk guy or Clady or one of the women saw something and called it in. A firefight broke out between the two sides. A dozen or so Wolves rolling out in a monsoon caught someone’s attention.

  Something.

  Where Snapper is right now, if he is even alive, Byrdie can’t concern himself with. At the moment, his focus needs to be on self-preservation. There will be plenty of time for worrying about the gaping void at the top of the Wolves hierarchy later.

  Finishing up with the dashboard, Byrdie runs the napkins over the radio dial. From the
re he goes to the gearshift and finally the steering wheel.

  Leaving the car where it sits isn’t ideal, but it isn’t as if he has a choice. Like so damn many things this past week, he is making do with what he has.

  And if right now that means setting off on foot in a blinding storm, so be it.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  For the briefest of moments, Sven thought perhaps he had made a mistake. That in some way he had tipped his hand, alerting his targets that he was coming.

  Working his way along the sodden trail approaching the backside of the motel, he’d made it almost to the edge of the parking lot when the first set of headlights appeared. Dropping himself into the mud, he had waited as the lamps swept across the rear of the parking lot.

  Passing right over him, he’d sat with his body poised, waiting as a pair of men climbed out. Recognizing their posture and gait immediately as law enforcement, he had assumed that they’d been called because of him. That the women had spotted him earlier in the day. Or somehow he’d been seen exiting his truck and headed out into the rain, dressed entirely in black.

  Watching them, his thoughts had moved to the Beretta Pico stowed in his fanny pack. The knife tucked away as well. The fact that if it came down to it, the two men would be no match for him.

  Not in daylight out in the open, and certainly not under circumstances like these.

  An action he in no way wanted to take, he steeled himself for what he may have to do. Anticipation building, he’d stayed face down in the mud, ignoring the chill of the rain beating down and collecting around him.

  A pose he maintained for a full five minutes, ending with the arrival of the Wolves.

  By the time the first heavy rounds of gunfire had erupted, Sven was up and away. Knowing there would be no getting closer tonight, that there was nothing to be gained by his continued presence, he’d backtracked out. Completing his second roundtrip of the day, he’d made it back to the truck in just over fifteen minutes.

  Soaked and muddy, he’d climbed in and driven away, only now taking the time to slow.

  Pulling into a strip mall on the edge of the suburb known as Clairemont, he comes to a stop in the back corner of a Target parking lot. Bright red neon manages to penetrate the falling rain, casting the interior of his truck in a sanguineous hue.

  Despite the hour and the weather, more than a hundred cars fill the lined spaces nearby. A few people walk under the cover of umbrellas while others huddle near the front entrance, waiting for a lull that isn’t coming.

  Reaching to the seat beside him, Sven takes up his burner cellphone. Thumbing it to life, he scrolls to the only number listed and hits send.

  “Is it done?” Elsa Teller asks, getting straight to it.

  Words that only sour Sven’s mood, even if they were completely expected.

  “No,” he mutters. Raising a hand, he runs a thumb across his forehead. Peeling away sweat and rain, he flings the resulting droplets onto the seat beside him.

  “No?”

  “No,” Sven repeats. “Couldn’t get close enough.”

  After laying in the wet mud for so long, the interior of the truck is nothing short of a sauna. The warm air pulls moisture from his skin and clothes, the windshield fogging with condensation.

  “Couldn’t get close enough?” Teller asks, her sudden habit of repeating everything he says fast growing annoying.

  “Not with the cops and the Wolves all shooting at each other.”

  He can hear her draw in a sharp breath. Holding it a moment, she eventually says, “It didn’t come from this end.”

  A small snort rocks Sven’s head back. If he’d thought that for even a second, there would have been no phone call. He would have simply shown up at her condo. And then at the home of the senator.

  Especially considering they had already overstepped once by insinuating that he wasn’t working fast enough.

  “Tell your boss I’m on it, but it might take another day or two.”

  Chapter Forty

  The single image, the one thing above any other, that lingers in Detective Malcolm Marsh’s mind is the red smudge on the rear of the ambulance. The smear of Tinley’s blood left by his own hand as he slammed the door shut, willing it away from the motel.

  More than the scattered bodies strewn across the parking lot, their blood mixing with the miniature streams of rainwater crisscrossing the broken pavement. More than the handfuls of first responders with their lights twirling, arriving just moments too late.

  More even than the front of his suit covered in blood.

  Seated behind the wheel of his sedan, Marsh stares straight ahead. Hidden behind the tinted windows covered with fat droplets of rain, he barely even registers what is going on a few feet away. Teams of uniforms securing the scene as criminalists begin working on the room.

  In the hours ahead, the list of things that will need to be done is truly infinite. Having to act while everything is still fresh, he’ll need to reach out to Wilson Ramirez in El Cajon and tell him to lock down The Wolf Den. He must coordinate with the various personnel outside, relaying how he wants everything handled.

  He’ll need to walk over to the office lobby and finish the conversation he started an hour ago with Kyle Clady, now accompanied by the Ogos and Jeff Swinger.

  Right now, though, all he can think about is that smudge on the back door. Watching the paramedics continue what he started, stemming the blood flowing from the pair of gaping wounds on Tinley’s chest.

  How much he needs to be there when his partner gets out of surgery.

  What will happen if he never does.

  Eleven straight days now, Marsh has been operating with laser focus. Every bit of him has been homed in on the cases at hand, ignoring even his own most basic needs.

  He hasn’t eaten much. He’s barely slept.

  Whether those choices contributed to what happened to Tinley, he can’t know. Not for certain. Just like there is no way to be positive that announcing themselves and stepping outside earlier was the right call.

  Or if it even would have mattered anyway.

  Chapter Forty-One

  A few bullets that were aimed my way as I was tucked in the far corner of the windows lining the front of my room went far left of their target. Smashing into the next windows over, they technically swallowed Fran and Valerie’s room as part of the crime scene as well.

  Subjected it also to criminalists. Crime scene tape. The whole deal, making both of them off limits.

  And for the second time in a week, rendering all three of us homeless.

  With nowhere else to go – and told not to even consider leaving - the three of us and Swinger are piled into the front lobby of the small office on the opposite side of the parking lot. Both ladies sit in orange plastic chairs, blankets wrapped around their shoulders. Clutched in Fran’s hands is a paper cup of instant hot chocolate.

  In Valerie’s, tea of some sort, a white tag draped over the side and hanging across her fingers.

  Gaze aimed at the floor, Fran stares straight ahead. She makes no attempt to speak or to even follow the conversation at hand. Equally seems to have no interest in the events unfolding outside, having retreated back into herself for the time being.

  A stance I cannot disagree with in the slightest.

  A couple months ago, the poor woman had fallen ill and was told to get over to America. They were sworn to help her. Aid in her treatment. Do all they could to ensure the cancer she was carrying wouldn’t worsen.

  Instead, she’s spent untold weeks battling the system. Fighting tooth and nail for a couple of sacks of outdated remainder medication. A few consultations with a doctor that has now been murdered simply for doing his job.

  If I were her, I’d be sitting there right now trying to figure out the best way to get back to Micronesia. Boat or plane wouldn’t matter. Swimming wouldn’t even be off the table.

  Just something to get me far away from this insanity.

  Beside her, Valer
ie stares up at Swinger and me. Very much aware of every word being spoken, she says little, the events of the night no doubt having shook her too.

  As such things would, the scene nearby the sort of thing usually found in television shows like Sons of Anarchy or American Horror Story.

  Not outside of random motels in major U.S. cities.

  To my right, Swinger uses what little floor space there is to pace. Bottle of water in hand, he sips from it repeatedly. Every two or three passes across the room he stops beside me, asking me another question or commenting on what is transpiring outside.

  Time and again, I’ve seen him behave in a similar manner. Coming down off an adrenaline high, he is unable to sit still. Body supercharged on chemicals, he’ll be this way for at least another couple of hours.

  At which point, it is best if he is close to his resting spot for the foreseeable future, because you’re likely not moving his giant ass again.

  Processing my own reaction in a different way, I stand with arms folded over my chest. Hands shoved into my armpits, my elbows clamp them tight to my sides, helping to control the shaking that is just beginning to occur.

  Known to last for anywhere from a half hour to a few hours, after that I will likely power down as well. A low energy state – if not completely passing out – as my body fights to work its way back to stasis.

  “How many?” Swinger mutters, coming to a stop beside me.

  “Seven.” Flicking my gaze his way, I add, “And apparently six more last night.”

  If he is surprised at all by this, he does nothing to show it. Completely focused, he grunts slightly before saying, “Plus the two from the other night.”

  “One more the night they burned my house.”

  “And Lincoln.”

  There is no way to know exactly what the full-strength number of the Wolves is, but I have to believe that seventeen represents a decent chunk of their membership.