Warning Shot

by Dustin Stevens

  Before seeing what he did this afternoon, the plan would have been to use the alley behind the house. Stealing down in the darkness, he would have used the cover of trash cans to avoid any stray light. Coming up on the house from behind, he would have entered a back door and sought out what he needed.

  There and gone without anybody being the wiser.

  Now, the plan is much more direct. The only thing he had asked Teller after she reported the updated situation this afternoon was how she wanted him to proceed. Her answer had been unequivocal, promising to significantly increase his fee for making one more headache go away forever.

  A directive he is all too happy to comply with as he pulls up in front of his target destination, flips open the latch on the front gate, and steps inside.

  All in plain sight of anybody that might be watching.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ringer’s choice in beverage is fueled by two distinct things. The first reason is that the lemon iced tea in his hand came in a glass bottle. Smooth in texture, the chilled liquid inside makes it an excellent impromptu cold compress for his palm.

  At this point, any bit of pain has long since receded. That part he isn’t concerned with. More important is the fact that the low temperature keeps blood from collecting in the area and, by extension, continuing to seep.

  Far from the friendly confines of The Wolf Den, he needs to consider such things. Already, a man of his size, sporting his dimensions, draws attention. There is no need to help that along by leaving smears of fresh blood wherever he goes.

  As an extension of that concept, the second reason for opting for the iced tea is that he currently finds himself in the parking lot outside of a Carl’s Jr. in Chula Vista. Folded into the passenger seat of one of the handful of sedans the Wolves keep on hand for moments like this, he stares out through the front windshield, taking in every vehicle that passes.

  Not once has he yet seen any law enforcement, but in the event one happens by, he doesn’t want to give them any obvious reason to take interest.

  That is why each of the men inside the sedan has food purchased from the drive-thru nearby in their laps. Why he is drinking tea while the others sip on sodas that came with their combo orders.

  With the side window rolled down, Ringer sits with his right elbow propped up on the sill. Bodyweight leaned to the side, he keeps the bottle in hand. Balanced in his lap is a double cheeseburger.

  On the thigh beside it is his cellphone, the screen dark, just as it has been for the last solid hour.

  “Any word?” Gamer asks. Wedged beneath the steering wheel, he is the only one inside the vehicle actually eating the food. Thus far, he has consumed a pair of burgers and most of his fries. The majority of a large Coke has gone into washing them down.

  Seemingly as a direct result of many meals just like this one, a white towel is in hand, the rag passing over his shaved head every few minutes, wiping away sweat.

  Even if the night is the coolest they’ve had in quite a while.

  “Not yet,” Ringer replies, answering without looking over. Not much interested in the slow trickle of patrons swinging by for a late-night snack, he keeps his focus on the road nearby.

  There is no way of knowing when the man Teller mentioned will make his way to the Ogo house. Normally, he wouldn’t even go as far as to say the guy would choose tonight to make his move.

  But there was something in her voice, the urgency with which she wanted them away from the place, that tells him time is of the utmost importance. After more than a week of dealing with this issue, she – and whoever she represents – is ready for it to go away.

  Twisting the top off his tea, Ringer lifts it to his lips. The sharp acidic tang of the lemon slides over his tongue, a harsh contrast to the beer he’s used to drinking.

  Still, his being here is of vital importance, both to what they’ve been doing these last several days, and to what happened this very morning.

  With each hour that has passed, he’s made peace with what went down with Byrdie. A collision years in the making, he can’t imagine many in the organization holding him accountable for making the decision and dismissing the man.

  If anything, it might even serve as a wakeup call to some of the others that might be slacking off a bit or allowing some thoughts of insubordination to seep in.

  The part that he can’t abide is people taking open shots at the Wolves. Whether it’s Teller and the way she’s treated them or Clady and his open warfare against them, it is time for this shit to stop.

  And in order for that to happen, the head man needs to be out front. He needs to be leading the effort, showing his own guys and anybody else that might be paying attention exactly how he runs things.

  If that means sitting in various parking lots in the area awaiting word all night long, so be it.

  It’s not like it would be the worst Sunday night he’s ever spent.

  Twisting the cap of the bottle back into place, Ringer sees the front screen of his phone light up. A moment later, the theme song from The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly pipes into the car, loud enough to be heard without spilling out through the open windows.

  Shifting his gaze down to it, Ringer sees Gamer cease his gluttony in the driver’s seat. From the rear, Doc and Woody both lean forward, almost one thousand pounds of beef staring at the tiny device resting by his knee.

  Making no immediate effort to reach for it, he waits until it gets almost through the first stanza before lifting it to his ear.

  “Yeah?”

  “Boss? Popeye here,” a breathy tone replies.

  Sliding his gaze over to Gamer, he nods once. “Yeah?”

  “Looks like he’s here,” Popeye says. “About fifteen minutes ago, lone guy came through on foot. Blonde hair, fortyish, wearing a coat with both hands shoved into the pockets.

  “Walked by every car on the street checking them out before hitting up the house.”

  The idea had first come to Ringer earlier in the day while speaking to Teller. A polar swing from his immediate reaction to what she wanted, he’d made a concerted effort to walk back the staunch opposition he’d initially felt. Stopping just short of complete obedience, he had told her that he would do as requested.

  And to a degree, he had. The men had been pulled off the street outside. Even at that, it was not until the woman had shown up in a terrible disguise to scout it out herself that he was completely certain it could work.

  “How long ago?” Ringer asks.

  “Just ducked inside,” Popeye replies.

  Before pulling out that afternoon, his guys had been told to find a good vantage somewhere on the block. A place where they could keep a watch without being seen.

  A spot like the house sitting vacant three doors down from where they were parked, a For Sale sign in the yard serving as a neon beacon to someone in their position.

  “On foot?” Ringer asks.

  “Yep,” Popeye replies.

  Ringer’s hand tightens on the bottle as he continues to stare straight ahead. Holding it for a moment, he pulls up long before making the same mistake twice in one day, the muscles and tendons along the belly of his forearm visibly slacking.

  This is what he’s been waiting for. Since this morning with Byrdie. Since the encounter with Clady at Linc’s house the night before.

  Hell, since Teller first walked into The Wolf Den days before.

  “Who’s there with you?” Ringer asks.

  “Jonesy,” Popeye replies. “You want us to move?”

  “No. We’re on our way.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The smell of the charred remains of Kyle Clady’s home still resides in Detective Malcolm Marsh’s nostrils. Lingering there from a quick stop by the place in the wake of their conversation with the arson inspector, he can still pick up the faint traces of gasoline that hung in the air. Clear in his mind is the image of the battered wasteland that was the home.

  The darkened puddle that was once a
swimming pool in the backyard, ash and debris lying in a thick film across the top.

  The homes pressing close to either side. On the right, melted vinyl siding that had previously been pale blue. Warped and bubbling under the intense heat of the blaze, it had literally melted down the side of the house.

  Resembling candle wax after a long night of burning, it had collected in the dust lining the footer of the property. Dried in place along the outer wall, thick tendrils of it twisted into misshapen rivulets.

  To the left, what was previously white stucco was left covered in soot. Completely blackened, the matching nubs of palm trees sway high above, their leaves scorched away in the fire.

  Stopping by the place a few nights earlier, Marsh had seen the raw power of the fire. Still burning fiercely, it had thrown orange and yellow fingers into the night sky, rising twenty or thirty feet into the air. With them had gone a steady plume of black smoke, rolling upward in an unending torrent.

  For as searing an image as that had been though, it paled in comparison to what they’d witnessed an hour before. Unable to hide behind darkness, the stark reality of what had happened was on full display.

  The complete breadth of what had been done. Of what was destroyed, never to be returned.

  And what was once an idyllic neighborhood, unlikely to ever get back there again.

  “Hell of a thing,” Mark Tinley says from the passenger seat.

  Voice loud enough to penetrate Marsh’s thoughts, it pulls his attention to the side. Nothing more is added to the initial statement, though there doesn’t need to be.

  Neither having said a word since they left the house, there is no doubt what the man is referring to. He’s merely voicing what Marsh was already thinking.

  “Yep,” Marsh agrees. Easing up on the gas, he drops the turn signal and begins to drift to the right. At such an hour on a Sunday night, the traffic surrounding El Cajon is nonexistent, the two of them moving fast and easy.

  Overhead, the sun has completely disappeared from view. In its place is the pale glow of assorted city lights, the proverbial halo effect that seems to sit above most towns of any size these days.

  “What do you make of what Bond said?” Tinley asks.

  In the moment, it was a bit surprising. Not what was in the report itself, but the way Bond dropped Clady’s name out there and the reaction he’d had.

  The fact that he had been there at all.

  Going through it a handful of times since, the surprise has ebbed away. Arson investigators are charged with doing just as the title implies. It isn’t a shock to think he called in the owner of the home to determine what he knew or to ask if he recognized the men in the images.

  “We already knew it was arson,” Marsh counters. “Anybody with a working nose figured that out the other night.”

  Pulling up completely on the gas, he lets them coast to the end of the exit ramp before hooking a right. Reaccelerating, he nudges them down the two-lane, seeing the hulking edifice of their destination ahead.

  Easily the largest building in the area, he reaches out and turns off the navigation app on his cellphone, letting the visual guide him in the rest of the way.

  “Yeah, but I mean the rest of it,” Tinley presses. “With Clady...”

  Much like before, Marsh already knew what his partner was getting at. He’d chosen to consciously sidestep it because he didn’t yet have a viable response.

  There is no way to ignore the fact that random occurrences seem to be happening with great frequency in the last ten days. Just as it is impossible not to draw lines connecting each of them to Kyle Clady.

  What isn’t nearly as clear is making them all fit together. Determining how a shooting in Balboa Park, a house fire in Clairemont Mesa, and a murdered doctor in National City all relate.

  Same for the pair of Wolves that were admitted last night at the destination they are fast approaching.

  When Marsh had first asked about the group, Clady had seemed genuinely surprised. He didn’t seem to know anything about them, claimed to have never interacted in any way.

  That was also almost a week before, back prior to when Tinley had dropped the name of Mike Lincoln.

  And everything else that had been swirling around really picked up speed.

  “You trying to put Clady at Hoke’s place in National City and out here in El Cajon last night?” Marsh challenges, glancing over to Tinley.

  Knowing what the question will do to the younger man, he listens as his partner fumbles with some sort of response. In the meantime, he hangs a left off the street and pulls into a visitor stall out in front of Parkside Hospital. Four stories tall, despite the hour it is still lit up like a Christmas tree, more than half of the lot full.

  “No,” Tinley manages. “I mean...maybe? We are talking about somebody that has been trained in all kinds of modern combat.”

  Shoving the gearshift into park, Marsh turns his attention to the passenger seat. He lets the man see the tempest of thoughts he’s already working through, the fuse that is growing ever shorter, a combination of frustration and mounting exhaustion.

  Saying nothing, he watches as Tinley opens his mouth to respond. As he attempts to continue piecing things together before eventually lifting his palms.

  “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “Me neither,” Marsh says, jerking the keys from the ignition. “But let’s go talk to this guy, see if he can help us out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It takes me a few minutes. Half of them are to figure out just who – or rather, what – the name Bernadette is referring to. The remainder are to calm myself, tamping the anger I feel back into place.

  While I might have plenty of time for dealing with such unnecessary measures, I find myself severely lacking in the energy.

  Or the patience.

  Phone in hand, I abandon my previous plan and step outside through the front door. Pausing to again scan the parking lot, I make sure the green minivan hasn’t made a late return, that the motel owner is still tucked away in his room, before setting off at a diagonal across the parking lot.

  Crossing through the trapezoid of light spilling out from the window of the Ogo’s room, I make my way back to the same picnic table I used earlier in the evening. Underfoot, the gravel crunches with each step. Faint puffs of dust rise, settling around my ankles.

  Any gasps of light from the sun have long since faded. In their place is a waxing crescent moon, the kind that should play perfectly for Halloween in a few days.

  Cool air settles over my exposed forearms. Still dressed in the same undershirt I wore to St. Mary’s this afternoon, I can feel a slight shiver run the length of my spine.

  Paying it all no mind, I keep the phone in hand until reaching the table. Thinking better of sitting again, I instead circle around to the far side of the swimming pool before pulling the keypad up onscreen and punching in the only thing I can make of the coded message that was provided.

  Bernadette. A single name with ten letters.

  A phone number, disguised in a way most would never think to consider.

  At least I sure as hell hope that’s what it is. Otherwise, I’m going to have to pay Inina a visit. Or give up on the whole damn idea and just go back to working my way through the Wolves until something shakes loose.

  Taking a single breath, I hit send and lift the phone to my face. With it pressed tight to my cheek, the light from the screen is completely extinguished as I turn back to face the Valley View.

  It rings twice before being picked up. This time, there isn’t nearly the delay before the same voice I heard a few minutes ago says, “I wasn’t sure if you would understand what I was saying.”

  Gone is most of the previous wariness. In its place seems to be exhaustion, the man not wanting to play the game any more than I do.

  “It took me a minute, but I got there,” I reply.

  “I’m sorry for having to do so. Can never be too careful these days.”

 
What exactly he feels the need to be careful from, why he thinks his phone is being monitored, just two of many questions that float immediately to mind. With luck, we’ll get to them and many more in time.

  For now, I let them pass in lieu of more pressing matters.

  “Does the name Mira Clady mean anything to you?”

  Like him, I am skipping past much of the preamble for now. As with the previous questions, there is a host of things I will eventually share. For now though, I’m content to stick to the matters of immediate import.

  “No,” he replies, taking no more than an instant to consider it. “Should I? Was she a friend of Inina’s?”

  “To my knowledge, the two never met,” I say. “Mira was my wife.”

  This time, there is a bit more of a pause. A moment to process what I’ve shared.

  “Was?” he eventually asks softly.

  “Yes. Up until last Thursday when she was shot in cold blood in Balboa Park.”

  I don’t bother adding that she died less than a minute later in my arms. It will only take us further down a tangent that we don’t need to be on just yet.

  More things for another time.

  “And because last night, Dr. Brendan Hoke was murdered in the home that serves as his clinic.”

  A sharp intake of breath is the immediate response. “Brendan?” he whispers.

  I know the delivery of the information is extremely indelicate. I’m not trying to be mean or even inconsiderate of the deceased. I just can’t continue jumping through hoops.

  For ten days now, my Mira has resided in a drawer at the coroner’s office. A week and a half that we haven’t been able to put her in the ground. Have not been able to let her rest or any of us properly grieve.

  Things are arising faster than I can keep them straight, but I have no choice but to keep pressing. If I don’t, if I stop for even a moment, I’m going to get consumed.