Warning Shot

by Dustin Stevens

  By grief, or anger, or some combination of the two that will not end well.

  “The only connection they share is both of them were scheduled to meet a few days ago with a woman much like the congregation you worked with for the last twenty years. A COFA migrant that is sick and came here seeking aid.”

  The last of my pitch complete, I fall silent. I wait as he seems to brace himself, expecting more to come. Eventually, he realizes I am done and takes a deep breath. A sniffle and a shudder both follow immediately thereafter, the man working through the assorted bombshells I just tossed at him.

  For more than a minute I wait.

  When at last he does speak, it is far from what I am expecting.

  “Mr. Clady,” he begins, “have you ever heard of a place called Slab City?”

  The question seems to come in from so far afield, it takes me back for an instant. I can feel my brows come together as I consider it a moment before saying, “Out in the desert, right? Over near that crazy mountain thing?”

  This much I know only from watching the movie Into the Wild long ago. Beyond that, I am at a loss, though I’m not about to tell him as much.

  “Right,” he replies. “Salvation Mountain.”

  “What about it?” I press.

  “Do you think you can make it out here?” he answers. “I have a feeling we need to talk.”

  The name of the spot was PB Jay’s. An attempt to capitalize on the stretch of sand just north of downtown San Diego being referred to as Pacific Beach and a menu that was said to be famous for something called a ‘gourmet peanut butter and jelly sandwich.’

  How something I had been slapping together since I was four years old could possibly be considered gourmet, I wasn’t sure, though at the moment I wasn’t much up for pressing.

  Especially considering the way my stomach felt, there was no way I would be consuming anything this evening anyway.

  Parked in the row of diagonal slots lining the street outside of PB Jay’s, I sat perched behind the wheel of my car. Staring at the front door, I watched as a steady flow of local co-eds and tourists moved past in equal parts. The former bedecked in rubber sandals and tank tops, bikini straps peeking out from behind their necks.

  The latter with bright red faces and sweat staining their brows, wherever they came from no comparison to the constant glare of southern California sun.

  Every few seconds, my gaze shot over to the digital clock on the dash, watching as the last few minutes wiled away. With each successive glance, my left leg moved up and down faster. A steady rhythm going so fast my calf was starting to burn, the only external signal of the tempest of thoughts roiling within.

  Aided by the pep talk from Swinger and Ross, I had eventually managed to put in a call to Mira. When it had mercifully gone to voicemail, I’d managed to go through three rough iterations of a message before finally settling on something coherent enough to leave.

  A poor attempt at a joke. An off-handed mention of her saying I should call. A sorta-kinda-maybe ask if she would want to get together sometime.

  In the moment, I was certain I would not be hearing back from her anytime soon. Her original suggestion to call was only being nice. My complete lack of social grace on the message only heightened such a sentiment.

  How wrong I had been.

  For the first six months after Mira and I parted ways, I had no problem admitting I was in a daze. While I might have dated some during high school and my first couple years of college, she was the only person I would consider a girlfriend.

  Damned sure the only girl I ever loved.

  That first year in the Navy, she was what got me through. Every single day was a marathon, a trek to get by, knowing I was one day closer to seeing her being my finish line.

  It was the thing that made me keep pushing, long before I knew just what I was capable of. The mere notion of making it to our next call or visit my driving force.

  Wanting to see her face or hear her laugh.

  To make her proud of me.

  Once that was snipped away, I retreated back into myself. Without her to occupy my thoughts, I became acutely aware of my surroundings. The hardships grew more pronounced. The realities of what I was up against became especially stark.

  Fortunately, time eventually won out. It did what it does best, helping to close the wound. Little by little, things improved. Training ended and our first deployment began. I grew closer to the guys around me.

  Other things began to fill that void.

  By the time a year had passed, the longing was completely gone. After a second, rarely did I even think about her.

  A fact that made my reaction to seeing her outside of that cinema all the more jarring.

  Even more so my sitting outside of PB Jay’s, as nervous as that first date back in Corvallis years before.

  Running a palm across my forehead, I wiped away the beads of sweat that had settled into eyebrows. Reaching across, I ran the hand over the passenger seat, a damp spot the size of a quarter appearing.

  “Come on, Petty Officer,” I muttered. “Get it together.”

  The words were just barely out of my mouth before a pair of hands thumped down on the open sill of my window. An instant later Mira appeared above them, framed by the metal opening.

  “Hey, Stalker,” she opened. “You just going to sit out here and stare or you going to go in?”

  Jerking back an inch in surprise, I felt my eyebrows rise. Palpitations rose through my chest, my heart rate climbing a bit more at the sudden appearance of Mira beside me.

  In the few weeks since I’d last seen her, it was apparent that she had been no stranger to the sun. A copper sheen painted her skin, faint tan lines running diagonally across her collarbones. Wearing a yellow sundress, her hair was swept up behind her.

  A mischievous smile was spread across her face.

  “Eh,” I managed. “Sitting here trying to determine if it’s worth my time or not.”

  “Oh yeah?” she asked, her eyebrows rising. “Since when do you Navy guys have standards?”

  A smile creased my face as my gaze fell to my lap. My head bobbed twice as I tried in vain to think of a good comeback, the best I could manage being, “That’s generally true, but tonight I kind of made a promise to be good. One of those friend-of-a-friend type deals.”

  “Aww,” Mira replied, her head tilting back in understanding. “Taking one for the team, huh?”

  “Pretty much,” I replied. “But I hear she’s got a great personality.”

  Finally striking pay dirt, the crack managed to elicit a crack of laughter. Releasing her grip on the windowsill, Mira shot a hand out, swatting it across my arm.

  “You ass. You going to leave me standing out here alone all night or are you going to get out of the damn truck?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The identity and circumstances of the second objective Sven was given is even more surprising than the first. Most of the time, the people that come to him do so because they don’t have another choice. They pay his exorbitant fee because the targets they have in mind are visible. Well-connected and even better protected.

  Accessible only by someone like him. A person that can blend into almost any setting, proficient with a number of different manners of dispatch.

  Not since he was just starting out has he been given a list like this. A physician working out of a home in National City. A recent immigrant living with her granddaughter in Chula Vista.

  Ordinary people that present no mortal peril at all. Virtual unknowns with no online presence, no public footprint of any kind.

  If not for the employer and the amount of money being paid, he would almost find it an insult. He might even think he was being set up.

  What these people could have possibly done to land them in the crosshairs of such malevolence, he can’t imagine, and doesn’t even pretend trying to. Such decisions are made well beyond him, behind closed doors and out of reach from listening devices.

&
nbsp; For the most part, his job is merely to carry out those wishes. To do as instructed and collect a hefty paycheck. Use the money earned doing one of two things he is good at to support a life enjoying the other.

  A life of equal parts blood and the sea.

  An existence that would make his ancestors proud.

  The instant Sven is inside the house, the clock begins to run in his mind. After the show he just put on along the sidewalk, he has absolutely zero doubt that he was spotted.

  If the warning passed to him by Teller earlier is correct, right now there are at least a handful of Wolves inching their way toward the home. Multiple men coming with the intention of doing him harm, looking to get some bit of retribution for whatever slight they feel has been levied on them.

  Shoving his left hand a bit deeper into the front pocket of his jacket, Sven draws out the Beretta Pico. At just over five inches in length, his fingers wrapping around the base almost completely conceals it from view. Even with a full magazine and an additional round in the chamber, it comes in under a pound, barely registering with him as he steps forward into the house.

  Most people in his position make the mistake of keeping the gun in their dominant hand. They believe that tiny additional uptick in accuracy they might gain is worth it, though Sven has never subscribed to such a belief.

  To him, holding the gun in the left hand makes up for any marginal deficiencies. It also allows him to keep his right hand free for whatever may come, whether it be rummaging through drawers or wielding the MTU16 still stowed in his opposite pocket.

  A thin smile appears for just a moment as Sven scans the interior of the home. Before him is an open floor plan, everything save the stairwell running up the left side meant to be one large space. Comprised of both a living and dining room, it extends almost twenty feet before a wall separates what he presumes to be the kitchen.

  Based on what he knows about the neighborhood, if someone were to come for him, they would split their forces. Half would come directly up the front sidewalk, just as he had. The others would go down the alley and enter through the back, hoping to squeeze him from either side.

  The smile lingers for just an instant as Sven envisions what is to come. Moving into the center of the space, he swivels his head in either direction. He checks his sightlines from various points, finding the optimal vantage.

  As he does so, he continues to be aware of time ticking by. This is the only free moment he will have inside the house. His only opportunity to do what he came here for.

  If past experience is any indicator, once the Wolves enter, it will be messy and it will be loud. He’s known enough people like them over the years to know how they will operate, using pomp and bravado to try to dominate the situation.

  Not a hint of delicacy will be employed. No effort to obscure their movements or mask their noise.

  Nothing but destructive force looking to annihilate anything that stands in their path.

  Once it is over, Sven won’t have the chance to rummage through the house. He’ll be forced to make a quick exit, putting as much space between himself and the place as possible before the police arrive.

  Taking another step forward, Sven extends the Beretta Pico toward the front door. Holding it at shoulder height, he keeps the weapon parallel to the ground, peering the length of his arm. Slowly, he pushes his right leg out to the side. Moving in measured steps, he makes his way across the floor, lining everything up in his mind.

  Only once he is content with the layout of the place does he lower it back into position and turn his attention toward the kitchen.

  Knowing the Wolves are coming is a nice boon. A tertiary benefit added to what would otherwise be a rather dull assignment.

  But it isn’t the only reason he’s here.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ringer knows that the Wolves have two distinct things working in their favor. The most obvious is the fact that Teller’s new guy is in fact just a single man. Popeye has been in place in the vacant property across the street since late in the afternoon and has reported seeing only a single person enter.

  It is possible that someone used the rear entrance, but given what was seen, highly unlikely. Same for the professional Teller hired using an accomplice, even her choice of pronouns earlier being decidedly singular.

  That leaves them squaring off against one person of average size carrying no visible weaponry of any kind. Not even wearing an outfit that would make concealing such a thing very feasible.

  A sole person against the six of them.

  Adding to their advantage is that Gamer was onsite less than a week before. Together he and Byrdie had staked the area out when first surveilling Fran Ogo, gaining a working knowledge of the neighborhood. Points of ingress and egress. The best way to approach the house.

  Parked at the head of the alley running behind the Ogo house, Ringer is still in the passenger seat. Around him, Gamer, Doc, and Woody all lean in, staring intently at the phone in his hand.

  Tucked away behind a trio of trash cans, the sedan they are in sits with the lights off. The engine idles quietly, the vehicle completely obscured unless someone is specifically looking for it.

  “Any change?” Ringer asks.

  “Nothing,” Popeye replies. “He’s now been inside six minutes. Nobody else has entered, no lights have come on.”

  Since the first time they spoke, Ringer has been acutely aware of the clock. Knowing this will likely be their one shot to put themselves back out in front, to wag a middle finger directly at Teller, he does not want to miss this opportunity.

  Flicking his gaze up to Gamer, he says, “Ten minutes. Have to believe the guy will be in and out in under ten, right?”

  “If even that,” Gamer replies, his beady eyes never looking away from the phone.

  Grunting softly, Ringer says, “Popeye, how fast can you guys be across the street and through the front door?”

  “Ninety seconds,” Popeye answers.

  Again, Ringer grunts. He lifts his gaze, peering down the length of the alley. Counting the houses off, he lands on the fifth one up on the left, no more than fifty yards ahead of where they are parked.

  “Alright, this is how we go. The second we get off here, Popeye, Jonesy, you guys hit the ground running. Don’t bother being quiet or trying to hide.

  “He likely already knows to keep an eye out.”

  Shifting a few inches to the side, he looks over his shoulder to the backseat. “While they do that, Gamer is going to punch the gas, put us up even with the backdoor. Doc, you’re on the driver’s side, so you go in with us. Woody, you stay here, swing around and take the wheel.

  “Be ready to drive like hell the second we come back out.”

  Leaving one man outside isn’t optimal, but if things go as they should, it will be a necessary measure. A way to ensure they get away clean, before any nosy neighbors start calling in for help.

  Besides, it isn’t like the five of them won’t be enough to take out one man that is lightly armed at best.

  “All good?” he asks.

  A pair of grunts and nods come forward from the backseat.

  “All set,” Popeye says over the phone, a second voice chiming in in the background.

  Reaching into the footwell, Ringer takes up his Smith & Wesson 686. A classic six-round revolver, it is the reason for his trip home earlier in the day. A weapon handed over to him by the previous leader of the Wolves, saved for only those situations when the head man himself needs to get involved.

  Moments just like this.

  “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It was through nothing more than plain dumb luck that Byrdie even saw the Wolves arrive. Figuring they would still be casing the house, he took advantage of the working knowledge he already had of the neighborhood. Bypassing the street for the alley out back, he had parked two blocks away and stole in on foot.

  Working his way from trash can to trash can, he was curled up between two
plain black refuse bins when he heard the car arrive at the far end of the alley. Peeking out only far enough to give himself the slightest view, he had expected to see someone returning home late at night. Headlights and radio on, he prepared to fling himself backward, tucking himself into a tight ball as they moved past.

  What he found instead was a small sedan sitting with the lights off.

  The same sedan he and Gamer had sat in on the street nearby less than a week before.

  Feeling every muscle in his core draw tight, Byrdie had lowered himself a few inches. Face pressed tight to the side of the trash bin, he stared at the car, watching as it made it no further than a few feet down the alley. Sitting in park, it idled in place, making no effort to come closer.

  His first reaction had been that somehow they knew he was there. That they had put some sort of tracking device in his phone, or implanted it on him while he was unconscious.

  Reaching into the small of his back, he’d extracted the pistol he always kept stowed in the undercarriage of his motorcycle. Brought along just in case there was a collision with the Wolves posted outside, he gripped it tight.

  Sweat dripped down his face, the aching in his body replaced with tingling as eventually the car began to move forward.

  And rolled right past him, none of the four men inside so much as looking his way as it went.

  Not until the sedan was past him did Byrdie allow himself to breathe. Gun still in hand, he eased out an inch further, watching as it pulled even with the rear gate to the Ogo house. The instant it did so, all four doors opened in unison, Doc and Woody climbing from the backseat.

  Ahead of them, Gamer and Ringer himself both spilled out, the troop making a ragged line for the back door.

  Never once did any of them slow as they went for the house. Just as none of them even glanced back his direction. Running hard for the house, he could see Ringer and Gamer both carrying guns. Doc carried a rod of some sort, a tire iron or billy club.