Browning watched for a minute. A jet ski approached the shore near Oliva. “Anyone got thoughts on the jet ski rider approaching? White jet ski, blue life jacket, blue helmet, sunglasses. Skinny guy. Maybe a girl. Maybe a kid?”
Oliva climbed onto the back of the jet ski.
“Fuck!” Browning yelled. “Go to fiesta island, see if we can keep eyes on him.” Browning relayed where he was going to the team. “Four, get pictures and call the damn harbor patrol,” he said before dropping the handheld in disgust.
They jammed into reverse, only to be boxed in by a car loading up a paddleboard. Browning pulled his badge and shoved it outside the window. “Move it, now!”
“Communications,” Browning growled. “Where’s harbor patrol? Get air support services. If SDPD isn’t available, get the Sheriff’s ASTREA.”
“Harbor patrol is en route, ETA is nine minutes.”
Ten long seconds later, they were out of the parking lot and driving south, parallel to the water.
“We’re about to lose visual,” two said in his earpiece, “They’re headed north and veering west.”
Browning flipped the siren and lights. “Shit, shit, shit!”
They drove south to get to the bridge to Fiesta Island. We’re going the wrong fucking way. They’re going forty, we’re going the same. Browning watched people and cars try to scramble out of their way, but the road was narrow and crowded. They couldn’t safely go faster than forty.
Three long minutes later, they got to the land bridge, raced across, zooming past a pack of bicyclists, then made the right-hand turn onto the island.
They hugged the road. They had no visibility of the water on the left because of the curve of the small island, no visual of Oliva on a jet ski straight ahead or to the right. They kept as fast a pace as was safe on the curvy bay road with blind spots, kids, and dogs playing just feet away. Browning strained his eyes, he couldn’t hold the binoculars steady with the jostling of the car. “I don’t see them.”
A minute later, the road veered west and Browning’s seat belt jerked hard against him. His partner slammed on the breaks because people were on the road scurrying away from the shoreline and into their cars.
“The fuck?” Browning asked. “Park it, let’s go.”
Browning and his partner ran into the fleeing crowd. Browning pulled his gun, his steps slow and measured on the sand. A woman passed by him as he approached the water. And then he saw it. A body laying facedown in the water, a hundred yards from the shore. The body was floating in the calm water. The person wore a white t-shirt and khaki shorts. It was Jose Oliva.
Browning squinted at two jet skis off in the distance. What the fuck? MS-13 uses jet skis? He ran back to the car for his handheld, hoping like hell that harbor patrol could get them, knowing it was a long shot.
* * *
Jo sat next to Dzuy in the Best Buy parking lot, her new, and last, burner phone in her hands. She texted Omar, [I set Oliva’s bail at 500, they bonded him out at 50k. With cops watching he was killed on a jet ski. Gun shot.]
She exhaled. “How are you?”
“Relieved to know it’s over.” Dzuy took her hand. “You think Browning is done looking at us?”
“I do.” Jo squeezed Dzuy’s hand. “When he called to tell me Jose Oliva was dead, I told him his job was to get more evidence and that I can’t talk with him about active cases. But I would always be there if he needed a warrant.”
“So, he thinks you let Oliva out so the police could track him to find more evidence against MS-13. Omar thinks you let Oliva out so his cousin could kill him.”
Jo nodded. “Two birds, one gavel.”
* * *
Omar took one hand off the steering wheel to read Jo’s text. A smile spread across his face. He went up against Thirteen and lived. He won.
Omar patted the backpack full of gold in his passenger seat. Thirteen will pay me back fifty times over when I’m through with them. Half of Omar’s smile faded, turning into his patented smirk. “I don’t know,” he whispered the gang’s words to himself, then smirked even harder. No. I do know.
THANK YOU
Thank you for reading my book. I humbly ask that you post a review on Amazon or wherever you bought this book. It is incredibly helpful for potential readers and independent authors to get honest reviews from readers.
A review doesn’t need to be long. A helpful review can simply state if you loved, liked, disliked, or hated the story, and a bit about why. Maybe the characters were great, or flat. Maybe the pacing was slow, or kept you turning pages. Maybe you can name a book that’s similar. Maybe you can say, given the cost of the book, you would recommend it to others. Your opinion on those areas, or any others, is helpful—even if you didn’t like the story.
Your review encourages me to write and my incredible volunteers to edit. I don’t have the advantage of a professional editor, most of the grammar mistakes and typos have been caught by my friend Dennis Quinn, my Aunt Mary, my wife Ann, my brother Joe, and my usual beta reader Pete. This story wouldn’t have been nearly as good, or polished, without the help of Dave Larson, Mike Gibbs, Pendleton Wallace, Brian Hogan, and a few other very talented writers who I meet with every week. If you’re interested in reading books by other independent authors, I suggest taking a look at their books.
If you liked this story, this is the second book in the Jo Channing series. The first book is Blanket Immunity, where you can learn how Jo and Omar first crossed paths. A third book in this series, The Silencer, will be out by early 2022. Keep your eyes open for it.
I have also written three installments of the Aaron Baker series: Wounded By Her Guardian, Sunshine or Lead, and The Dinosaur Lawyer. And I’ve written How to Write a Novel in 20 Steps.
If you want to get in touch, please find me on Facebook or Instagram. I would be happy to answer any questions you might have. Thank you for reading Gangster’s Court and, hopefully, for your review on Amazon or wherever you bought this book.
Thank you,
Adam Van Susteren
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