“That’s not really for me to grant. That’s for the DA.”
Omar shook his head. “He can agree to this, can’t he Judge?”
“I guess,” Jo agreed. “He can agree not to use anything said here.”
Omar ignored Jo. “A marijuana store was robbed. They hired me to find the money. I learned it was done by this Salazar kid who was connected to Filthy Rose, so I turned down the assignment and tipped Jo to it. I don’t mess with MS-13 but hoped the cops would, and then I’d be able to swoop in and get the money after.”
Jo wanted to focus on Devil’s Bullet, but didn’t protest.
“The other Salazars turned on him, I’m guessing for holding out on the score. With one dead and the rest in jail, Filthy Rose started looking into things. He got wind I was investigating, trying to find the money, and he got the lady cop, Maggiore, to start looking into me too.”
Browning nodded. “Okay.”
“Here’s where I’m speculating.” Omar leaned back in his chair. “I think she told Rose that I didn’t have the money. He gets back at me by stealing my car, then meets with her to kill her. And then he gets clipped by his own guy for talking to a cop.” Omar shook his head. “Rose was MS-13. He went to prison and was made into La Eme. After he was released, he became a captain in MS-13. No way I mess with him.”
“So what’s with the Devil’s Bullet?”
Omar leaned back into his chair. “I don’t know. He’s a boss. Bosses don’t hit the streets like this.”
“Speculate,” Browning pleaded.
Omar paused for a deep breath. “Bala del Diablo is probably here to make sure they stop killing each other. He had one of his captains killed, a guy he brought up.”
Jo shifted on the couch. How much of this is true?
Omar pulled his shirt taut. “I’m guessing Bala del Diablo wants to blame an outsider. He might already know that Jose Oliva killed Filthy Rose. But if he can blame an outsider, like me, then it keeps the gang from splintering.” Omar shook his head. “I never mess with MS-13. It’s too big. Too powerful. The only gang big enough or bad enough to take on MS-13, is itself.”
“Why did Rose kill Maggiore? Why did Jose Oliva kill Rose?” Browning asked.
Omar shrugged. “One of two things—money or power.”
“Bottom line, they are too big and we don’t have time.” Jo exhaled a deep breath and looked at Omar with conviction. “You’ll have to die.”
27
Omar sat on the ground, so tense that he had to force himself to breathe. He laid behind Brian Hogan’s overturned thick wooden desk in the hallway near the rear of the law office. The only light in the entire office came from the two iPads displaying security feeds next to him.
Omar glanced from screen to screen. No cars in the back parking lot and no one walking around. Three cars in the front parking lot. Omar tried to count the men; four in each car, total of twelve was his estimate.
Omar darted his eyes the eerie glow of the tablets to the four pistols resting on the floor beside him. Each contained eleven bullets in the clip and one in the chamber.
He felt the heft of the AK-47 rifle resting across his lap. He second-guessed his decision. An AR-15 would be more accurate, but the AK-47 has bigger rounds that cause more damage. Omar nodded to himself, he made the right choice. He exhaled deeply. His life was now in Dzuy’s hands.
Movement on an iPad caught Omar’s eye. The car doors opened. Omar turned the iPad focusing on the rear of the building upside down to kill the light. He watched as seven, eight, nine, ten men huddled out front. That’s him, Devil’s Bullet.
Devil’s Bullet walked to Penn’s Glass Repair, the group of men following behind him. Omar watched him look under the front door mat and retrieve the key, exactly as Jo said would happen.
Omar’s pulse thundered. He pulled off his baseball cap and rubbed his sweaty scalp. He tossed his cap on the ground and put on the doctor’s mask. He saw the men walking towards the front door. In a few seconds they would have the first door unlocked. Then the second.
Omar turned the second iPad upside down. He put the barrel of the rifle on top of the table and reached down for the flip phone. He stared through the darkness at it, his thumb hovering on top of the send button. Dzuy explained what would happen. A petroleum gel would shoot from the air conditioner’s housing, ignite and burn at 2000 degrees. Magnesium sticks and powder on the ground and in the potted plants would catch fire and burn at 4000 degrees. Thermite in potted plants would catch at 3000 degrees and burn so hot the law office would burn quick and the men would die from heat asphyxiation before they could burn to death.
Omar strained his eyes to see his last resort a few feet away against the wall. His breath strained against the mask. He steadied himself on one knee, ready to press send, then start shooting.
There was no hum of air conditioners, he shut them off so he could hear better. No traffic at this hour. He heard a faint sound of rustling at the opposite end of the lengthy office.
They’ll go to the couch, out of my sight. He had placed a mannequin head and torso on the couch under a blanket. The ruse was pretty convincing, even with the lights on, but it wouldn’t last long.
Omar strained his eyes to see if the door was opening. He listened intently, thinking he heard footsteps on the carpet. His left hand clenched the barrel of the rifle more firmly. He should have changed the carpet to wood to help him hear their noise. Next time. Omar smirked under his mask.
There, a shape moved. Another. Another. Omar tried to keep count as shapes fanned out in the large office. One seemed to come towards him, his embankment would be revealed as soon as they flashed a light.
Omar squinted against the darkness. He could sense the office was full of people moving about. A soft clicking cut across the quiet office. The door closed. They’re all inside. Omar pressed send.
He set the phone down gently and put his right hand on the rifle, his index finger gently searching for the trigger guard and trigger. His finger pad found the trigger.
A quiet vibrating sound near the front door caused everyone and everything in the office to stop. Omar could make out shapes moving to the door to inspect the noise when a hiss rang out throughout the office.
Omar tried to focus on the shapes in the darkness but found his eyes drawn to the bright red and yellow whooshing from the front window air conditioner. Within seconds, fire engulfed the floor and ceiling of the office, casting enough light for Omar to see men in black shirts.
Omar squeezed the trigger. His ears hurt with the distinctive TAT blast as he aimed at black t-shirts. He squeezed, again, again, and again. Twenty-six bullets left.
Booms rang out across the room. Omar didn’t hear any bullets land near him, he guessed they were shooting at the mannequin. He heard shouts and scanned his viewable area for targets. None. The men must be regrouping away from the fire near the couches.
Omar moved to the wall of his embankment, grabbed the lighter and flicked it. He lit the lighter fluid-soaked rag in the bottle—it caught instantly. He picked up the bottle and threw it to the left side of the alcove. It shattered, flames spreading instantly.
Gun shots smattered the wall ten feet from Omar.
You don’t have an angle on me.
Omar darted back to his rifle, taking a knee and readying his position.
“Trabajan, aspersors!” a man commanded from the alcove.
Omar smirked under his mask. Milk made sure the sprinklers wouldn’t work. The fire was spreading, Omar could feel the heat from his safe distance from the flames.
“Omar!” a voice called out. “Let us go and we let your family live.”
Omar took an instant to flip the iPads upright. The rear was clear. Three men in front, presumably getaway drivers, stood next to their cars watching the blaze.
Omar ducked as he heard guns fire rapidly. He looked up and didn’t see any bullet holes. The shots weren’t near him. He heard thudding in the distance.
T
hey’re trying to break through the wall to get away from the fire. They can be through drywall in a minute.
Omar grabbed two pistols, jamming them in the front and rear of his belt. He picked up the rifle and paused behind the safety of the overturned desk. Omar thought back to what Jo said once Browning left her chambers, For this to work, you have to kill them all. She was right.
Omar grabbed the rifle and leapt over the desk, hugging the wall as he approached the flames. He felt the heat wash upon him, the smell permeated his mask. He heard screaming and thuds. He was just a few feet from the flames and had an angle to where some of the men were.
Omar pulled the trigger. “TAT, TAT, TAT, TAT.” He roared bullets from left to right, stepping back as the flames reached for him. “TAT, TAT, TAT.” He shuffled back from the flames. “TAT, TAT, TAT.” He was now firing through the wall, still backing away while firing. “TAT, TAT, TAT.”
Omar squeezed the trigger but no more bullets fired. He tossed the rifle into the flames, turned, and leapt back behind the desk. He grabbed a pistol from the ground, snapping his head at the sound of a man screaming.
A man ran through the fire towards Omar. Omar aimed and pulled the trigger. The man jerked. Omar fired again. The man jerked again. He was fifteen feet away. His shoes were on fire, his skin was blistering, but he kept coming towards Omar.
Omar aimed a touch higher and shot. Then man fell, thudding down just a foot before Omar’s desk. “No pasan!” Omar yelled, firing the rest of the gun’s bullets into the wall where the man had come from.
He tossed the gun next to the man, grabbed another pistol from the ground, looked up, and saw two men braving the fire. They were running towards him and shooting.
He ducked behind the desk, the impact of the bullets nudging the heavy desk. Fuck. He only had seconds and they were still shooting. Omar could feel the heat coming from the office behind the desk, he could smell something.
The two men were coming over the table, a flaming sock brushed against Omar’s shoulder. Omar pointed up and fired his gun into the man. Three quick shots and the man collapsed next to Omar.
Omar backed away from the desk as the other man was mid-straddle. Multicolored fire flared in the background. The man who killed dozens, ordered the deaths of hundreds, Devil’s Bullet, managed to avoid catching fire like the others that came for him.
Devil’s Bullet paused and stared at Omar.
Omar trained his pistol on his face.
“Deal?” Devil’s Bullet asked.
Omar pulled the trigger. Devil’s Bullet slumped backwards, falling towards the side of the office that was on fire.
Omar looked at the men on the ground. The old carpet caught fire and was nearing his position; no one would try to come this way. The fire in front was way worse thanks to Dzuy. The remaining men either broke through the wall or died of asphyxiation.
Omar opened the back door, a whoosh of cool air rushed past him and the flames kicked higher.
He pulled the mask off, it was soaked with sweat and warm to the touch. He dashed to the back door of Penn’s Glass Repair—locked. He looked to the window on the left, it was made of thick glass. Too thick to smash. Any survivors would be through the wall and out front before he could get through.
Fuck. The bail bond place had bars on the back window; there was no way to get through. To run around the buildings to the front was nearly a quarter mile. If he sprinted, he could get there in under a minute, but then he would be in no shape to have a shootout.
Omar hustled past the law office and stopped at the bail bond bars. He reached up, grabbed them, and pulled himself up. He wedged his running shoes onto a cross bar and pulled up again. Three seconds later, he was holding onto the roof, pulling himself up with such momentum that he pressed himself upright. He swung onto the shingle roof and ran across the roof of Buffy’s Bail Bonds to the parking lot.
He slowed his pace. He could hear the fire burning and the men out front yelling. He stayed low and approached slow, not wanting them to see or hear him coming. He pulled the pistol from his front waistband and approached the edge. He saw fire popping up through the roof twenty feet to his left.
He stepped near the edge, gun pointing down. The three men standing outside in front of the law office were yelling at each other. They were ten feet down and twenty feet away.
Omar trained his gun on the closest man’s head. While he was more likely to miss than if he aimed for center mass, a head shot was more likely to be fatal. He steadied himself, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger.
The man dropped. Omar trained the gun on the second man’s center mass and squeezed. The man ran, hunched over, to his car. Omar squeezed again, again, and again. The man collapsed.
Omar scanned the parking lot for the third driver and any men who escaped the fire. He didn’t see any. He focused again on the second man, he was crawling towards his car. Omar aimed for his head and squeezed the trigger. The bullet dented the asphalt. He squeezed again. Blood splattered the ground. The man stopped moving.
Omar performed a second scan of the parking lot, the third driver had to be under the awning. He looked to the street. Even with no residences within blocks, and all the businesses closed, it was so loud that the cops would have to be called soon. He didn’t have time. But Jo was right, they all had to die. Omar listened hard, no sirens. The cops could be rolling up in stealth. If he got busted, he’d be dead within hours in jail.
Omar looked down at the parking lot. If he jumped, he might break a leg. If he hung and dropped, he’d be shot before his feet touched the ground.
Estoy chingago! Omar shook his head. So close. Maybe I should have called Primo.
He stepped back from the ledge. No one made it out front yet, the fire was through the roof now. If anyone survived, they could have gone out the back of the glass repair shop to try to flank him. They had to be dead. Only one guy left.
Omar jogged parallel to the parking lot across the roof of the bail bond store. He jammed his gun into the front of his shorts. Seconds later, he was at the edge of the side of the building, looking down. Clear. He dropped to his knees, grabbed the edge with his hands, lowered himself to a hanging position, then dropped.
He pulled the fresh gun from the rear of his waistband, crouched, and jogged to the corner of the bail bond shop. He peeked his head around to bring the parking lot into view. He saw the corpse of the first man he killed, the three cars, and assumed the second corpse was hidden behind a car. He didn’t see the third man.
He peered further out and listened hard. Nothing but the roar of the flames—and shattering glass. Could be the fire. Or the men. Omar darted into the parking lot, seeking cover behind the closest car.
He made it without any shots being fired at him. He scanned the street, no cars or people. No cops. In a crouch, with labored breaths, he ducked his head under the car to look. He saw the two bodies, nothing else.
He scooted around the first car to the second. He stood more upright, watching the flames shoot out of Brian Hogan’s law office. Smoke clouded Penn’s Glass Repair. No one made it out, did they?
Omar scooted to the cover of the third car. He looked around. Where’s that fucker? Omar listened intently. He had to find him, and stay alive. The cops would be here soon.
“Mierda!” rang out from the roof of Penn’s Glass Repair.
Omar snapped his attention to the roof. Someone was above the glass shop moving toward his old location. He probably burned his hand on a hot shingle. Omar couldn’t see the man, he must be in the middle of the roof. There isn’t time!
Omar breathed heavily, thinking about how this could play out with Detective Browning. With MS-13, and his own family. What if Browning backs out of his end because of all the bodies he wasn’t expecting?
A loud crash startled Omar. Based on the flames leaping out of the law office’s roof, he figured part of it had collapsed. Out of time.
Omar darted closer to the law office, threw his guns and
wallet into the inferno, and hugged the building while he jogged. He pulled off his polo shirt and wrapped it like a Muslim head scarf around his head and face, in case a building’s camera caught him running away.
He ran across the street, sucking hard at the air through his shirt. He ran past a closed burrito shop, turning at the corner. His lungs stung, the mask had helped with the smoke, but didn’t stop it. His shirt smelled like smoke too. Just one more block.
When Omar ran by a closed Jiffy Lube, he heard a siren in the distance. He spotted the motorcycle Milk left him. He sprinted to it, looking on the ground for whatever Milk would have put the key under.
A bag of dogshit caught Omar’s eye. He smirked. Milk probably carried it with him the whole drive over because that’s one thing people aren’t likely to pick up after midnight. Omar picked up the bag—two keys on a chain.
He grabbed the keys, got on the black Yamaha, and tied his polo tight around his face. He started it up and pulled away slowly. Keeping the engine quiet, he drove away from the sounds of the sirens for four blocks until the neighborhood changed to residential. He noticed Milk’s truck, right where it should be. He pulled up next to it, throwing the green polo he had around his face into the back of the truck. He grabbed and put on a white polo shirt, black leather jacket, and chugged a bottle of water before putting on a black motorcycle helmet.
Omar gave a thumbs up, then waved his hand through the air, held up a single finger, and made a fist. He didn’t bother to look for Milk, he knew he was somewhere watching and had received the message: Omar made it out, but it wasn’t perfect.
Omar drove off, keeping his helmet mask open for fresh air and his speed at the posted limit.
28
“The fuck, Judge?” Browning’s unmistakable voice commanded over the phone.
“Excuse me, Detective,” Jo responded sharply, glancing at the time display on the cable box, 2:08am. She watched a reporter stand before fire trucks, swarming firefighters, and a small burning office complex. She held her hand over the phone and whispered to Dzuy, “Browning.”
Gangster's Court Page 18
