Warning Shot

by Dustin Stevens

  When they part a final time, Gamer is gone as well. Lying facedown on the floor, his enormous form is spilled atop Doc, the two of them piled high.

  In his place is Byrdie.

  How the man got there, Ringer has no clue. If it is even real, there is no way of knowing.

  Little by little, he can feel the life leaking out of him. He can taste blood in his mouth. Every breath is a chore.

  Blinking repeatedly, Ringer tries to make sense of what he is seeing. He tries to understand why Byrdie is holding a white index card, a smile on his face.

  But there is no use. No point in even trying. As with so much of the last week, this entire outing was a disaster. An effort to finish something they never should have been involved in.

  So many things he wants to say right now. Things to relay to the Wolves. Comments to Byrdie about what happened, about why the hell the man is here now.

  Barely is he able to move his lips. Blood coats his mouth as he tries one last time before giving up on it.

  Unable to communicate in the traditional sense, he instead does the last thing he has available to him.

  Lifting his left hand, he extends his middle finger.

  The last image he ever has is of the smile fading from Byrdie’s face.

  And the muzzle flash erupting from the tip of his gun.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chief Detective Wilson Ramirez’s contact at Parkside Hospital is a young man named Mateo Perez that looks to be somewhere between Detective Malcolm Marsh and his partner in age. Light tan skin belies hair cropped down tight. A few days of growth lines his jaw, framing an oversized smile that is so bright it gleams, matching the gold chain around his neck.

  In any other setting, it wouldn’t be hard to imagine the man as an actor. Or a model. Or most anything where he is able to coast by on his looks.

  Dressed in light green scrubs, his white coat is draped over the rolling chair he sits on. Leaning forward at the waist, his fingers are laced as he stares across the desk at Marsh and Tinley.

  “I’m so sorry you guys had to make the trip clear out here. If Willie had said anything, I would have been glad to give you a call.”

  Assuming the Willie that is being referred to is Ramirez, Marsh waves it off. While it would have been nice to have the option, odds are they would have wanted to make the drive out anyway. With any luck, once they are done speaking to Perez, they’ll be able to look at some video footage from the night before.

  And they had already been to Clairemont to see Greg Bond anyway.

  “Not a problem,” Marsh replies. “Can you take us through what happened last night?”

  Additional questions, clarifiers of various sorts, rise immediately thereafter, though Marsh manages to reign them in. For the time being, he wants the man to speak freely, not limiting himself in any way.

  “Sure thing,” Perez says. Adjusting himself in his seat, he leans forward another inch, his elbows on the far end of the armrests. “I am an ER doctor here at Parkside. As you can imagine, Saturday nights are always our busiest nights of the week. People go out, have a few too many, that sort of thing.”

  Marsh nods along. It’s the same for them, many of the transgressions that land people in the ER also requiring police involvement.

  “Most of the time, it’s pretty straightforward,” Perez says. “Someone falls down and hits their head. Maybe they have a fender bender and come in with a broken arm or nose. Might need a few stitches.

  “Those I don’t even think about at this point.”

  “But the two men that arrived last night were different?” Tinley asks.

  Flicking his gaze over to his partner, Marsh moves back just as fast, returning just in time to see Perez wince.

  “Oh yeah,” Perez replies. “Big time.”

  “How so?” Marsh presses.

  “Because what happened to these guys wasn’t an accident,” Perez replies. “There would be no single impact that could have caused all that. These two had clearly pissed someone off.”

  Over his years with the force, Marsh has seen plenty of assault cases before. Bar fights, altercations in the street, a hundred other things that bring people to blows.

  In almost every instance, the injuries sustained are just as the doctor mentioned. Of a single type, or clustered into a tight area.

  “And by all that, you mean...?” Marsh presses.

  “Broken bones,” Perez replies. “Gouges. Indentations.” Pausing, he seems to put himself back there a moment, a visible shudder wracking his entire body. “Basically, a ton of blunt force trauma.”

  Looking up, he flicks his gaze to either detective, both remaining silent.

  “Like someone took a mallet or something and just beat the holy hell out of them.”

  Marsh accepts the news with a straight face. Small details connect in his mind, little pieces from the last several days, his conversation with Ramirez the afternoon before.

  The information confirms part of what had made Marsh want to make the drive in the first place.

  But it doesn’t quite tell the full story he is looking for.

  “And you say these men were different? This sort of thing is unusual?” Marsh presses.

  “Yes, and, well, yes,” Perez replies. Parting his lips to continue, he pauses. Considering his next words a moment, he focuses on Marsh and says, “Detective, I did my internship and residency at MLK Hospital in LA.”

  Shifting his gaze over to Tinley, he adds, “Compton. So I’ve seen some things, stuff I kind of wish I hadn’t.”

  Moving back to Marsh, he continues, “Now, I won’t say what happened here is the worst thing I’ve ever come across, but I can say it was definitely an outlier. What happened to these boys was not an accident, and it was not just heat of the moment.

  “Somebody wanted these two out of action, and they took their time making it happen.”

  Various questions and retorts rise to the surface, though Marsh keeps them in place. Despite the doctor’s young age, it is clear he is more than competent. Just as Marsh doesn’t doubt that if he spent years working at MLK, he has indeed encountered some things that would make lesser people shudder.

  There is no point in pressing further on his assessment of the situation. Nothing more to be gained from it besides maybe satisfying a bit of lingering morbid curiosity.

  “Is that why you gave Chief Detective Ramirez a call?” he asks instead.

  Separating his fingers, Perez raises a hand before him. Wagging it on edge, one side of his face scrunches slightly. “Partially. I was born and raised here, have known Willie most of my life. Not long after I started at Parkside, he asked me to kind of keep an eye out.”

  “For?”

  “Anything unusual. Extreme. Stories that don’t quite make sense.”

  “And this one?” Tinley asks.

  “Well, there wasn’t a story because the men were unconscious when they arrived,” Perez replies. “Drop offs, right out front. After we got them patched up, I was already planning to give Willie a call, but I stopped by the security office and asked them to pull footage from the parking lot feeds.

  “That’s when I noticed it was a couple of guys in black vests that had dropped them off.”

  “Wolves,” Marsh adds.

  “Yeah,” Perez confirms, nodding slightly.

  “Where are the men now?”

  “Checked themselves out the second they woke up,” Perez replies. “Completely against medical advice. Didn’t get a prescription for painkillers or anything.”

  Considering the state it sounds like the men were in upon arriving, Marsh can’t imagine them having called someone to ask for a ride. Damned sure can’t figure on them having walked out under their own power.

  “Who came and picked them up?”

  Shaking his head, Perez unlaces his fingers again, lifting his palms toward the ceiling. “Family, I guess. When I left this morning, surgeons were still working on them. By the time I got back tonight,
they were gone.”

  Pausing, he considers things a moment before adding, “Cameras showed a woman in a minivan came for them both.”

  The phone on Marsh’s hip begins to vibrate. In the quiet office, it is just loud enough to be heard, Marsh reaching back and silencing it without checking the screen.

  Given the day and time, whatever it is probably isn’t a good thing.

  Add it to the list of stuff that will have to wait.

  Riffling through everything that has just been shared, a few stray questions come to mind, but nothing essential. Rising, Marsh extends a hand before him.

  “Doctor, thank you so much for making the time. I know you’re about to start your shift and probably have a lot to get to.”

  Taking to his feet on the far side of the desk, Perez meets his grasp. “Hope it helps. Feel free to give a call if anything else comes up.”

  Again, the phone on Marsh’s hip starts to pulse. This time, he leaves it be, ignoring the pang of annoyance that is beginning to spike within.

  “Will do,” Marsh replies. “Also, can you point us in the direction of your security office? We’d like to take a look at those tapes if we can before going.”

  “For sure,” Perez says. Using the same hand he’d just used for the shake, he gestures toward the door. “You actually passed it on your way here. Just off the main waiting area there’s a door with red trim. Can’t miss it.”

  Nodding, Marsh closes with, “Thanks again,” before heading for the door.

  Behind him, he can hear as Tinley and Perez make their farewells as he steps out into the hallway. Walking to the far side of it, he keeps his pace slow, waiting for his partner to join him before heading back the way they came just a few minutes before.

  Together, they make it to the corner of the hall, neither saying a word before making the turn, putting Perez’s office out of sight.

  “Well, what did you make of that?” Tinley asks, his voice lowered despite the lack of movement around them.

  Still not quite sure what to make of everything that was just shared, Marsh instead reaches to his hip. Extracting his phone, he sees the pair of missed calls are both from the same number.

  As is the text message that arrived just a moment thereafter.

  Without even realizing it, his pace slows. Coming to a complete stop, he exhales slowly as he stares down at what just arrived.

  Beside him, Tinley takes an extra few steps before even realizing that he is alone. Turning back, he starts to say something before seeing the expression on Marsh’s face.

  “What?” he asks.

  Thoughts and ideas explode like fireworks through Marsh’s mind. His mouth goes dry, the information from Perez, the text in his hand, the hundred other things that have all happened in the last day all mashing into one massive pileup in his mind.

  Lifting his gaze to Tinley, he says nothing.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Twelve hours after the start of her day, Elsa Teller finds herself back in the same spot she was in the last time the string of digits popped up on her phone. Reclined in the wicker chair on the rooftop balcony outside her apartment, the shawl she was wearing earlier has been swapped out for a knit sweater and yoga pants. Same for the mimosa that was on the table, red wine the nightcap of choice.

  Out in front of her, the sun is hours past fleeing from the sky. Replacing the bright glow is the soft light of the moon, white stripes reflecting from the tops of the incoming waves. Mixed with them are perpendicular lines of white and yellow, lights from the building she sits atop of stretching out before her.

  From a pure workload standpoint, the day has been one of the better she can remember in a while, even for a Sunday. It is not until she drills down on the subject matter that even the tiniest hint of weariness surfaces, this one case fast spiraling into something so much larger than any of them could have expected.

  A fact she hopes this incoming call is about to alleviate.

  “Hello?” she answers.

  The last time she spoke to Sven, it was with the admonishment to be wary. After he had phoned earlier in the day, she had put in a call to Ringer and made her own attempt at reconnaissance. Both had gone the way they should have, but that didn’t necessarily mean the Wolves were pulling back.

  “You were right,” Sven says, skipping any form of greeting. Coupled with the tone of his voice, it is clear his night has been infinitely worse than hers.

  Moving only her eyes, Teller lifts her gaze to the sea. “About?”

  A moment passes. “There were six of them.”

  Feeling her eyebrows rise, the weight of the sweater begins to feel a bit warm. “Were?”

  “Yes,” Sven replies. “All six are gone.”

  He doesn’t bother explaining further, the purpose of his call now making plenty of sense even without it.

  Whatever mess she thought she was dealing with this afternoon has now tripled in size.

  “And you?” she asks.

  Sven takes another moment, this time pushing out a sigh, the sound a mix of anger and frustration. “I got lucky.”

  Somehow, Teller doubts that. Men don’t survive an encounter with six members of a motorcycle crew by being lucky.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I’ll live,” Sven replies. Not a direct answer to her question, but likely the best she is going to get.

  Falling silent, Teller considers the news a moment. What transpired isn’t terribly surprising. The Wolves have been beaten repeatedly in the last week. To men that need to piss on everything to mark their place in the world, that must be an especially bitter thing to deal with.

  The fact that they chose to come for a professional after she specifically gave them an exit only confirms that.

  “Did you get what you were there for?” she eventually asks.

  “I did,” Sven replies, “but there’s something else you should know.”

  For the first time, Teller moves. Shifting forward, she pulls her feet up under her, folding one arm across her stomach despite the heat of the sweater enveloping her.

  “What’s that?”

  “There was somebody else there tonight. They got at least two of the Wolves, and they also got the same thing I was after.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The image staring back at me in the bathroom mirror has improved by a considerable margin in the last couple of days. Even under the harsh glow of the twin fluorescent bulbs screwed in directly above it, there is no mistaking the clear shift that has taken place.

  Notwithstanding the stop by Mike Lincoln’s house with Swinger last night, most of the weekend has been a marked difference from the last week. Physical violence and self-deprivation have fallen by the wayside. In their stead has been a steady input of food and rest. This morning, I even managed to get in a run.

  The sum effect of these things is plain as I stare at the reflection in the mirror. No longer do I quite look like I just rolled back home from deployment. Nor are my eyes and nose both red-rimmed, appearing that I either just finished crying or am about to at any moment.

  The bulge that was distended from the left side of my face has receded back to something approximating normal. The mottled bruising accompanying it has faded from black and purple to yellow and green. Another day or two, and a decent chunk of it will be gone.

  Same for the trench that was cleaved through my arm by the bullet that took my Mira’s life, the scab now dry and brittle, hinting that it can come off at any time.

  After getting off the phone with Daniel Lucero, my first inclination was to jump into my car and tear off across the desert that instant. Punch Slab City into my phone’s navigation system and head that way. Sit down with the man that sounded every bit as sorrowful and exhausted as I feel and ask every last question I can think of.

  Those on point and even some of the others that aren’t, just needing a place to start unloading some of the myriad thoughts swirling through my head.

  That being the
very reason I can’t.

  While my employment with the navy is no longer active duty, that doesn’t mean I have free hand to do as I please. Tomorrow morning, I must still report to base and sit down with Dr. Botkins for another of our mandatory psych eval sessions. I also have to get there early enough to draw some new gear, replacing the uniforms that burned with everything else in my home a couple of days ago.

  According to Google Maps, the drive to Slab City would be a five-hour roundtrip. Given the current time, that would give me at most a handful of hours to sit and talk with Lucero. It would require another all-nighter, setting me back any progress that was made this weekend.

  And it would mean I walk into Dr. Botkins’s office tomorrow morning exhausted and sleep deprived, one more thing to raise suspicion from a woman trained to do just that.

  Leaning forward with both hands gripping the side of the bathroom sink, I can hear the sound of my phone buzzing. Turning my head toward it, I see the faceplate lit up atop my bed.

  Already, I know who the call is from. Pushing myself upright, I give one last look into the mirror.

  Two days ago, I stood in this exact spot and told myself that I needed to slow down. I had been going at a pace that wasn’t sustainable, was likely to get me hurt or worse.

  Exhaustion was obvious. The effect of the last week was palpable.

  Neither was what Mira would have wanted.

  Since coming to that realization, I have done the best the situation will allow for. I might have broken yesterday after seeing the photos at the arson investigator’s office and standing in front of the remains of my home. I may have let that anger carry over into what happened at Lincoln’s house in the desert.

  But I’ve also managed to focus a lot of my time and energy onto what happened and why. And as a result, I feel like I’ve gotten further in one day than the last several combined.

  Like I told Valerie earlier, something big is about to break. I can feel it.