L.A. Boneyard

by P. A. Brown

  “He may be armed.”

  “I expect he is. So are we.”

  They left Konstatinov’s partner to bring the cage car around.

  Konstatinov climbed in beside David, who slapped a light on the dashboard and took off through early afternoon traffic toward Miracle Mile, and the car rental place.

  David slammed on the brakes and angled the car up on the sidewalk on Wilshire, in front of the rental place. He left the 318 P.A. Brown

  lights flashing, and barely paused long enough to lock the doors, before he and Konstatinov stormed inside. Tired of being nice, and getting brushed off, David strode into the office marked Manager, past a phalanx of gaping staff and customers.

  He flashed his badge at the man, who stood over the only man present not wearing a suit, who in turn was hunched over an IBM computer, staring at a map on the screen.

  Without preamble, David asked, “Where is he?”

  The guy with the suit and tie, his name tag saying Mr.

  Dwight Stewart, stammered, “Casitas Avenue, southeast of Glendale Boulevard.” Stewart added an address.

  Konstatinov used his rover to call the address in. Within seconds the results came back.

  “Long haul trucking company.”

  “His new stable.”

  Stewart seemed puzzled. “Horses? I don’t understand—”

  “You don’t have to.” To Konstatinov he said, “Get some unis out there. Alert SWAT.” Back to Stewart he barked,

  “License plate, car color, everything you got.”

  Stewart handed him a brochure featuring a Bentley Flying Spur, extolling its virtue as a prestigious vehicle. “It’s Silver Tempest, with a Portland interior, and of course, leather trim—

  ”

  “I’m sure he’s the envy of every man who sees him,” David said. He barely glanced at the price: over ten thousand a week, with only fifty free miles. He swung around to face the manager, who winced and stepped back. “He ever go over his mileage limit?”

  “No, why—”

  “So chances are he didn’t take any out of town trips. At least not in this car.” David was thinking a mile a minute. “I suppose he could have rented another one, but why bother? He didn’t know we were on to him until we nailed Mikalenko. Then he knew the gig was up.”

  L.A. BONEYARD 319

  Konstatinov’s rover barked. “The officers are approaching the site.”

  “Tell them lights and sirens off. Approach cautiously. We’re on our way.”

  He threw the brochure back at Stewart who fumbled for it and watched it fall to the floor. No one made a move to retrieve it.

  In the Crown Vic, he activated the sirens, as well as the party lights, and raced north on Glendale Boulevard, cutting over to Tyburn, and up to Casita’s, just south of the tracks that bisected L.A. The area was an uneasy mix of commercial, rail and residential. Some chatter on the line caught David’s attention.

  He turned off the siren when he got closer.

  He grimaced at Konstatinov. “There’s a school yard a couple of blocks southwest. We need some unis in there to evacuate. Do it by the book. Get your vest on.” David spoke into his car radio to the rest of the approaching units. “Suit up.

  Don’t play hero. We’ve already lost one. Let’s be safe.”

  By the time he and Konstatinov rolled into the front of the lot, reports were pouring in about families being evacuated, and surrounding streets blocked off. A chain link gate had been cut open, and the normally secured truck yard was open. While David listened, and formulated a plan, he pulled his Kevlar vest on and threw his jacket in the backseat. Beside him Konstatinov did the same. The sun was wending its way seaward, throwing tinted shadows between the crowded warehouse buildings and nearby tracks

  Another call came over the radio. “Suspects vehicle spotted in rear of building. No sign of the suspect himself.”

  David drove slowly around to the back, the car bouncing over the pockmarked pavement. Both he and Konstatinov scanned the lot repeatedly, watching for movement or people.

  Already the bulky Kevlar vest was making its weight felt. It chafed his armpits. David spoke into the rover again. “Anyone else in the yard?”

  A woman answered, “Negative. The area appears empty.

  There are several trailers, and a half a dozen tractor trailers on 320 P.A. Brown

  site. There are two on the south side of the main structure that appear to have just arrived. Wait...” A second voice, probably her partner, said something David couldn’t catch. “Someone just got out of one of the tractor trailers and he’s walking around the back. There’s another man... I think it’s the suspect who’s meeting him.”

  Suddenly David heard cursing. “Bangers! A brown Malibu just shot through the front gate into the yard. My partner recognized them as bangers. Probably soldiers. They’re armed.”

  Seconds later: “A white panel van has entered the compound.

  We’re throwing up roadblocks and closing down the street.”

  “Call in an airship,” David said. He spotted the van before it rolled behind a row of trailers. The windows were blacked out; nothing could be seen of the driver, or any passengers.

  “Man in a suit just got into the van. Someone exited the Malibu. They appear armed.”

  “Come to guard the prince, no doubt,” David muttered. He keyed the mike open. “Proceed with caution. If they make you, try to pin them down until help can get here. Don’t be a hero,”

  he repeated. Wasted words. There wasn’t a cop in the area who didn’t know what David had found in the hotel room or the fact that the man responsible for that, and for the death of a cop, was here, now. Most cops reserved a special place in hell for cop killers, even if they ultimately didn’t pull the trigger.

  David was no exception.

  This was going to be rough.

  A second story window in the nearest warehouse blew out in a shower of glass. Sparks shot off the cracked pavement and cement abutments, pinging off brick and slamming into the hood of David’s Crown Vic.

  “Get out!” David yelled and slammed on the brakes. A dozens more rounds came in rapid succession. The Avenues had arrived with their MK 46s in full war mode.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Monday, 5:25 PM, Casitas Avenue, Los Angeles The hiss of nearby air brakes briefly drowned out the echo of automatic rifle fire. The raw stink of diesel and overheated rubber weighed down on David. Dust hung in the air and a low bank of menacing clouds blended with the smog. A row of feather-topped palms marked the opposite side of the property.

  Beyond lay freight yards where trains rumbled by day and night.

  Sunlight glittered off shattered glass and chrome.

  The rear window on the Crown Victoria’s side blew out.

  David threw himself out the door. He looked up long enough to see Konstatinov do the same, then a new round of bullets slammed into the pavement in front of him, kicking up splinters of concrete and dust. He pressed his cheek to the hot concrete and wormed around so he could free his gun. From under the car their eyes met; Konstatinov looked scared. David looked away. All he knew how to do was hide his fear. He couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t control it. Couldn’t help Konstatinov deal with his.

  “They’re behind us,” he said. “To the left I think. Try to get around behind the car. We’ll use it for cover.”

  Konstatinov inched along the pavement, up on his elbows, darting quick glances over his shoulder at the direction that shots had come. Before long both David and Konstatinov rolled to a stop, hips knocking together, under the protective rear fender of the Crown Vic.

  “You stay here,” David said. “I’m going to circle around—”

  “With all due respect, sir. I cannot do that. We must go together.”

  David knew he wouldn’t win the argument and Konstatinov was probably right. With no idea of where the others were, he 322 P.A. Brown

  needed the backup. It wouldn’t do to repeat Jairo’s rookie mis
take, or teach bad habits to the boot.

  More shots rang out in rapid succession. Instead of moving off, David slid into a crouch and popped the car’s trunk open.

  “Sir, what are you doing?” Konstatinov said when a series of bullets strafed the open trunk. Then silence.

  Nothing moved in the yard. A stiff breeze skittered across the cracked pavement. Yellowed newsprint fluttered along a nearby rusting chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The acrid stink of gunpowder rode the air.

  A new volley of shots broke the silence.

  In reply David holstered his Smith &Wesson and grabbed the mounted Armalite .223 short-barreled assault rifle out of the trunk, and slapped a magazine into it. He looked along the rear sight of the short-barreled rifle, and leaving the trunk up, signaled Konstatinov to follow as he wormed his way toward the sound of the gun fire. Through Konstatinov’s rover, he could hear rapid fire reports from field operators. The armed Avenues were pinned down in the rear of the lot, up against the chain link fence, that separated the truck yard from the rails.

  By now there was return fire, and his officers tried to cut down the cornered bangers. The gun fire from the automatic weapons grew sporadic. The bangers were finding things weren’t quite as easy as they had anticipated. Someone screamed. David prayed it wasn’t a cop. Off to his right, he heard a grunt, and the shuffle of feet on pavement. He swung onto his back, rifle raised, as an emaciated banger, obviously a tweaker, stumbled around the side of a shipping crate. An Mk 46 dangled from one hand.

  “Get down!” David shouted. The banger straightened, and swung the nose of his assault rifle up. David met it with his own. The concussion from the rifle threw his shoulder back.

  But his aim was good. The banger looked surprised as he fell, a neat, almost bloodless hole in the middle of his chest. The Mk 46 clattered to the ground at his feet.

  “Get that,” David said. Konstatinov retrieved the weapon.

  One less toy for the bangers to play with. On all fours, the two L.A. BONEYARD 323

  scrambled toward the continued sound of gunfire. David spotted a uni outside his cage car, his own patrol rifle clutched in both hands, bobbing up and down to get a clearer view over the car’s hood. He saw David, and Konstatinov, and signaled that the banger was just on the other side. David nodded.

  “The van’s moving, heading towards the gate.”

  “Stop it. It’s Degrasses,” David shouted.

  Sirens screamed, and more black and whites roared onto the lot. The call was out. Officers under fire. Every cop north of Inglewood was going to be answering that call. The white panel van, windowless, skidded out of the lot, its sides pockmarked with bullet holes. In the driver’s seat a figure was hunched over the dash as he tried to flee. David stood up long enough to pop a few new holes in the side. His next round aimed lower and two front tires shredded, laying rubber across the pavement.

  The van spun around, and in the next instant flipped over onto its side, spewing safety glass and burning rubber. The flayed wheels continued to spin lazily as David crept closer to the overturned vehicle. He waved for Konstatinov to approach from the other side. The rear door opened, and a bandana’d banger fell out onto the pavement. David saw he was armed with what David swore was an Uzi pistol. Apparently nothing but the best would do for Degrasses’ crew. He jacked a new 10round magazine into his rifle and rolled into a crouch, leveling his weapon at the banger. Konstatinov did the same. Faced with the sight of two cops pointing death at him, the banger let his own gun slide to the ground. Having premium firepower didn’t count for much, if you didn’t have to cojones to use it.

  “Where’s Degrasses?” David shouted. The banger looked away, but not before his gaze flicked toward the vehicle.

  Waving Konstatinov to watch over the man, he slid sideways along the van until he came to the driver’s side.

  He spun away and leveled his rifle at the smashed window.

  “Get out of there. With your hands in plain view. Now.”

  A brown hand came out of the window, groping for the door frame. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the banger stand. Konstatinov tensed, raising his weapon.

  324 P.A. Brown

  A young, battered Latino man tumbled through the window, onto the pavement. He scrabbled for his gun, another Uzi, but David kicked it out of his hand. “On the ground. Assume the position.”

  The Latino proned himself. He twisted his head sideways and scowled at David. “What you doing, cuz? I was just driving.”

  “Why?” David said. “It ain’t Sunday and this ain’t the park.”

  He put his foot on the banger’s back, and shoved him into the pavement. “Where’s Degrasses?”

  “He ain’t here.”

  David could make out the corner of Degrasses’ rental car, still parked where he had abandoned it. If he hadn’t fled in that, where was he—he spun around and grabbed Konstatinov’s rover. “Where’s that Malibu?”

  There was a flurry of voices, all of which ended in the same conclusion: the Malibu, and presumably Degrasses, had vanished.

  “Cuff him,” David barked at Konstatinov, who slapped restrains over both bangers’ hands and feet. David scooted back to the Crown Vic, and slid into the driver’s seat. The car was still idling. He threw it into gear, ignoring Konstatinov’s cry to wait, and peeled out toward the open gate. He threw the rifle onto the seat beside him, and made sure his shoulder holster was within easy reach.

  Behind him the shooting had died down. David hoped that was a good sign. Everywhere he looked he saw unis parading a string of what he assumed were Avenues to waiting cage cars.

  Then ahead of him he spotted the Malibu spinning through the gate, onto Tyburn Street. A plume of dust marked its passage.

  At the intersection he could see the barrier, and four black and whites blocking the road in every direction. Degrasses had to have seen them too, but he didn’t slow down. Instead he jerked the Malibu right, jinking around the nearest cage car, and clipping the hood of the black and white, bouncing off a telephone pole. Shots met this newest assault. A hole appeared in the Malibu’s trunk. David stepped on the accelerator, closing L.A. BONEYARD 325

  the distance between them. He aimed for the Malibu, and without slowing, tapped the bumper. Once, twice. The Degrasses’ vehicle skidded sideways, striking a second black and white, sending the crouched cops leaping out of its path.

  Another round of shots took out the Malibu’s back tire.

  Sparks flew off the shredding wheel as the vehicle continued to slide around. David nudged it again, fighting to keep control of his own car.

  “Pull over, asshole,” he muttered as Degrasses goosed the gas and fishtailed the other way, barely missing a stop sign, scraping off the driver’s side mirror. Torn metal screeched. The driver’s side window rolled down and a hand reached through, clutching an Mk 46, which he fired in random spurts. David rammed his foot on the gas, and slammed into Degrasses’

  bumper again, throwing himself against the wheel, and sending a jolt through his back. Not a good idea with no seat belt on.

  He did it again, and had the satisfaction of watching Degrasses skid over the curb into a telephone pole. The Malibu crumpled around the thick pole, paused briefly then took off back toward the truck lot. The passenger’s door had been torn half off its hinges, and the window had popped out. The driver wore a blue bandanna and a hoody that concealed most of his face. Only his red mustache gave him away as Anglo. Not much of a disguise.

  David threw his car into reverse. Tires smoking, he spun around, narrowly missing a street light, and bounced over the curb, then floored it after Degrasses. In the distance he could hear the pop-pop of renewed gun fire. Wisps of smoke boiled out of the crimped hood of Degrasses’ Malibu. David’s own vehicle wasn’t faring much better. The already lousy shocks were shot. Sound grew muffled, and under the hood he heard the thump sputter of a damaged engine. Something had been punctured in there. Small consolation that Degrasses’ wheels wer
e in worse shape.

  Degrasses’ gun came out again, and this time the shots were right over David’s hood. A single spidery hole appeared on the passenger’s side, plowing through the seat less than a foot from David’s right shoulder. He spun the wheel left, and the Crown 326 P.A. Brown

  Vic fishtailed toward the chain link gate still half blocking the entrance. He barely had time to throw up his arms when the car swung into the thick mesh. Headlights popped and tires blew.

  The Crown Vic kept rolling in a full one-eighty, ending up pointing back the way it had come.

  David scrambled out, Smith & Wesson in hand as he cleared the debris. The Malibu had also spun out, and now rested on three flats against the white bulk of a trailer up on blocks. The driver’s door opened, and Degrasses fell out, palms catching him from pitching onto his face. He rolled over, his Uzi in both hands, firing wildly even before he came to a stop on his back.

  David threw himself down. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Konstatinov raced around the trailer, his Beretta nine in both hands, as he swept the yard ahead of him.

  “Drop the weapon and put your hands over your head,” he shouted.

  Degrasses ignored him. He pulled the trigger, and a stream of bullets arced through the air toward Konstatinov.

  “Get down,” David yelled, but it was too late. Konstatinov stumbled back, dropping his nine, before he crumpled to the ground.

  David forgot Konstatinov, forgot Jairo, forgot the stream of death all around him. He dropped into a shooter’s stance, braced his Smith & Wesson on his knees, and drew down on Degrasses, who was frantically trying to ram another magazine into his weapon. He jammed it in, and swung the nose of the pistol up toward David, who took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.

  He held it down until the Smith & Wesson was hot in his hands, and the magazine was empty. He didn’t lower the weapon until Konstatinov staggered over to him, a scrape on his cheek bleeding profusely, his Kevlar vest dented in the center of his chest, his normally fastidious uniform ripped and bloodied. Gently he took the Smith & Wesson from David’s hand.