He believed Timmons’s assessment that the two SEALs were still alive. No big explosions, shootouts, or vehicles bursting into flames had been reported. And it had been two days without another dead body turning up. Thank God for small favors.
He had no choice but to trust the men Timmons trusted. He wondered how Timmons was managing to keep the brass off his back.
Not my war. It’s his.
Whatever private hell Hilber had created, the man wasn’t going to be able to hide behind the badge anymore. Even if he survived, his days of running protection for the San Diego gangs were over. At least now the public could breathe a little easier.
Until the gangs found someone else. Hell, they probably had several eager candidates already lining up. Someone who needed money. Someone who felt they deserved a little extra special retirement package in exchange for their years of faithful service. The money was enough to tempt a saint.
Mayfield sometimes wished he felt the same way. Maybe life would be easier. Just sell out. But no, that would never happen. The system wasn’t perfect. Lots of holes in it. But it was the only one around that made any sense, and, in general, the system improved the lives of the public. And they were his real bosses. Not the brass or the guys who signed his paycheck. He worked for those couples in the matching leisure suits out walking their dogs on a balmy San Diego night. The little people. The people who had families, went to work, paid their mortgages, and sent their kids to college.
He thought maybe Maria would like it if he went back to church. Maybe he’d get to spend more time with her there. He chuckled. She’d scold him. He’d been having some thoughts lately. And admitted for the first time, perhaps he was lonely after all.
No replacing you, Maria. Just saying a man has needs.
Maybe if he went to church and asked for help, she’d put her head together with Jesus and they’d find someone good for him.
Nah. Not going to happen.
He knew as sure as he was alive today that if he ever did that, he wouldn’t be able to hear Maria scolding him any longer. Like she’d be gone forever.
And he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
Mayfield called the SFPD’s Office of Special Affairs, the ones who handled jurisdictional cooperation, and told them about Caesar and his injury. They promised to alert ERs in the San Francisco Bay Area. He knew SFPD would get Caesar. And he didn’t mind that they would get credit for the collar. There was a need for San Francisco to show some toughness on crime, and this gave them that opportunity on a silver platter. Mayfield didn’t need the medal.
He didn’t even take joy knowing the DEA and ATF would send out hunting parties, rounding up gang members, weeding out their support system and wiping the slate clean for a time. He never really liked manhunts. Probably was a good thing he’d never made it through the SEAL program to earn a Trident.
Mayfield wondered how long it would be before Hilber would lose control over those gang members. He couldn’t ever recall hearing Hilber speak Spanish. That was a real handicap. And if Hilber was no longer a deputy, he might be more of a liability, more of a loose end to the gangs than he’d ever figured he’d be.
Could be, sooner or later, Hilber would find himself a nice watery grave, if the gangs even bothered to find a grave at all. With Caesar out of the picture for a while, someone else no doubt would soon step up to fill his shoes. The new guy would need to do some housecleaning. And that would be bad news for the soon-to-be ex-deputy.
But it was also true that if Kyle and Armando wouldn’t cooperate, they’d be loose ends as well. Mayfield knew from experience that the real leadership was in Mexico, hiding in plain sight, probably running operations right out of some territorial police captain’s office, one or two steps from a prison term himself. Maybe even paid for by US anti-drug task force money.
Crime finds a way. It doesn’t really pay, but for a time, crime always looks as if it’s winning.
He checked his watch. Only nine-thirty. Today was going to be a big day, if his instincts were right. He decided it was time to do a little research in the field to help set up the next phase of hunting down the bad guys and putting them behind bars. That was his job, after all.
Felicia Guzman was hanging laundry in her backyard when Sergeant Mayfield drove up in his patrol car. He saw her flowered dress and the braid wound up on top of her head, just like how Maria used to wear her hair. The sight almost took him back a step.
The house was painted bright yellow. Way too bright. An explosion of huge bursting dahlias and fragrant columns of pink and blue flowers grew all along the front of the stucco house. In front of the tall stalks was a profusion of low bedding flowers. In contrast to the rest of the neighborhood, Mrs. Guzman’s house looked like the Fourth of July and Christmas all at once, only without the flags and twinkle lights. No way you could drive down the street and miss it.
The dark little woman wiped her hands on her apron and prepared to greet him. He could see she was steeling herself for some bad news. Didn’t she know if bad news was being delivered, the Navy would be the ones to call and not some lowly San Diego police sergeant?
“Ma’am.” He wore his badge on his uniform and she was staring at it. “I’m Sergeant Mayfield from the San Diego Police Department.”
“You have some news about my son?”
She had a lined face that was full of character and resolution. The way she stared back at Mayfield almost made him embarrassed for some reason. Her large nut-brown eyes were soft but demanding. He didn’t see any trace of the fear and concern he knew she felt.
A young, twenty-something woman came dashing down the front steps. She had a gauze pad taped to her forehead. She was stunning in every sense of the word. A total knockout. Her long dark hair and tanned limbs nearly took his breath away. She was a taller, younger, and thinner version of her mother. The mother was quite stunning as well.
“Mom. I’m going down to Gina’s place for a couple of hours. She wants to help me pick out some clothes for the baby. We might go shopping, but I’ll be home before dinner. You want me to get you anything?”
“No. Mia, I don’t like you leaving the house.” She frowned and addressed Mayfield. “Mia, this is Sergeant—I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name…”
“Mayfield.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mia said as she extended her hand.
He saw the same strength her mother showed, but also saw defiance, especially directed at his uniform. What could be so attractive about the low-lives like Caesar when she had a home and a mother like this little woman standing next to her?
Mayfield shook her soft hand, very tentatively placed.
“You will stay home today, Mia. Have you no respect for your brother? Now go back inside. I need to discuss some things with the sergeant here.”
“Oh, Mama. They probably think I’m in the hospital. Besides, if they were looking for me, they would never expect me to be with Gina.”
Felicia Guzman dropped her gaze. “Mia, I am not happy about this. It isn’t safe.”
“You worry too much. He’ll…” Mia looked up at Mayfield.
He blurted out, “I know about your brother. That’s why I’m here.”
Mia took her mother by the shoulders and leveled a gaze at her that translated to a rejection of Felicia’s demand.
“He’s going to be okay. You’ll see. Armando always finds a way.”
After Mia gave her mother a peck on her cheek, they both watched Felicia’s daughter saunter out to her car.
“Armando’s sister. You’ve met my son?”
“No. I have not. Heard a lot of good things about him, though.”
“That’s good. He’s good to his mama.” She pulled a pair of clippers out from her apron and began to deadhead a rose bush. “You have news, then, about my son?” she said to the bush.
“Not really. You’ll have to be talking to the Navy about that. All I know is that he’s still being held, but we believe he is alive.”
“Not quite. They are together. And the girl too.”
“What girl?” She was alarmed.
Mayfield looked down the street and saw he was attracting some attention. “Would you mind if I grabbed a glass of water and discussed this with you inside? I have some questions I need to ask, in private.”
“Oh, pardon my manners. Of course. Come.”
Mayfield followed her inside, and it felt like he was going back in time to the early days of his marriage with Maria. When she had felt better. When she filled his life with sunshine and joy.
When she grew big showy dahlias just like Felicia Guzman’s.
Chapter 40
Kyle heard an argument going on in the next room, and it was getting louder. He was expecting the staccato of gunfire at any moment. He pulled a thin razor wire from the flap in his belt and cut Christy’s ties. She rubbed her wrists together, showing him with her eyes how grateful she was. He motioned for her to stay down and she nodded. He was on his feet and had garroted the sleeping thug with the razor wire.
He checked the man’s weapon to make sure it was operational. He found two clips he knew he’d need, and then rolled the body toward the wall, dumping a pillow on the man’s head to hide the blood. He checked for an additional weapon and found one stowed in his groin. Kyle tucked it in the front of his pants under his shirt. He lifted a limp arm over the top to make it look like the guy had fallen into a deep sleep.
When Kyle turned around, Christy was watching him from the floor. She’d just seen him kill a man. He saw the twins: fear and acceptance. But there was more.
Admiration.
Not what he needed, but what she wanted to show.
He helped Christy up so she wouldn’t stumble, but she did, and into his chest. He felt her breasts press against him and the brush of her hair under his chin. With his free hand, he clutched the back of her head and sunk a deep kiss, feeling her arms go up and around his neck. Her body went limp in his embrace.
But this was folly. He pulled her away and asked her with his eyes if she was ready.
Christy nodded.
That’s my girl.
Kyle debated whether or not he should arm Christy with the 9mm and decided not to. He motioned for her to stay in the corner. A sliding closet door was opened, but not wide enough for her to slip into. He shook his finger at it so she wouldn’t consider trying to enter. She crouched down in the corner, the shiny patent leather pumps dangerously delicious, even now. She looked like cat woman. He wanted to fuck her so bad it really did hurt. His package was rubbing against the blue steel of the weapon.
“How many?” he mouthed to her.
She looked up to the right, and then leveled back at him. She held up six fingers, then pointed to the man on the bed and turned a finger down. Five.
“Armando?” he whispered.
The arguing in Spanish stopped abruptly and Kyle tensed, then leaned flat against the doorframe. Christy pointed through the wall to the next room.
Armando was next door.
The Spanish conversations resumed, but the voices were calmer now. Kyle heard four distinct voices and the rustling of bags. He guessed the three returning boots had brought breakfast. And they’d want to share it with the dead guy.
Something was said in Spanish outside the door. Kyle and Christy waited.
The door burst open. Kyle let the gunman enter the room fully before he pushed the door closed, twisted the man’s neck, breaking it instantly, keeping his palm over the man’s mouth to muffle any sound.
Now Christy had seen him kill two men. In less than five minutes. He glanced in her direction and was thankful to see her staring at the floor. Killing was not something he was proud of, but if the odds were down to four versus two, not counting Christy, they had a damned good chance. If Armando was in any shape to fight.
The absence of the two gunmen was getting attention from the other room. The door was kicked open and then the room was sprayed with automatic gunfire, splinters of wood flying like a wood chipper. Someone breached the doorway and caught Kyle’s rounds across the chest. Kyle hadn’t been sure until that moment whether or not the ammo was hollow point, and thank God it was. The body, encased in a flak vest, crumbled to the ground.
The other two gunmen fanned out in opposite directions on the other side of the door, disappearing into the shadows of the hallway. Kyle hoped Armando was awake and ready. He kicked the door in with the heel of his boot and stepped into the living room, his weapon trained on anything that moved. Armando stepped up next to him. His teammate was weaving.
Kyle went to fish out his other 9mm, but Armando held up the captor’s weapon.
“You okay?”
“Fucked, man, but I can do this blindfolded.”
It felt good to hear Armando’s voice after all this time.
Another hail of automatic rounds pierced the air, sending little explosions along the walls, shattering the window glass. Armando and Kyle pressed themselves to the floor until the firestorm subsided, then leapt through the doorway and swung an arc of fire across the room, cutting one man down but pinning the other one behind the kitchen counter. Armando was going to blast through the cabinets.
But that wasn’t the real problem.
“Hey, asshole,” came the familiar voice of Deputy Hilber behind Kyle.
Kyle turned and saw Hilber in his shorts and a T-shirt, barefoot, gingerly stepping across debris from the gunfight. He had Christy in a chokehold and had an automatic aimed at her temple. She was barely able to keep upright, Kyle saw. Her feet were slipping on pieces of door, furniture, and sheetrock as she and Hilber made their shaky path from the doorway into the living room.
Kyle and Armando lowered their weapons, but didn’t let them drop.
“Aquí, aquí,” Hilber said to the gunman behind the counter, pointing to Armando and Kyle with his forehead.
The two SEALs were disarmed. Kyle’s gaze flew back and forth between Christy and Hilber. He and Armando spread out from each other, then slowly raised their hands and placed them behind their heads as they’d been instructed. They continued to turn toward Hilber and spread apart further. Kyle was slightly forward. Armando was closer to the other gunman, backing into the kitchen area.
“Not so fast, gentlemen. Stop right there.” Hilber was having a hard time with Christy’s balance. She was leaning into him, trying to get her footing on the uneven floor.
Christy’s eyes were not wild and unfocused. She was trying to tell him something, but Kyle couldn’t get it.
He looked at Armando, who twitched the left side of his lip. The gunman in the corner looked like he was about to pee in his pants. He was mumbling something Kyle couldn’t understand, but Armando whispered a terse sentence back at him in Spanish, which made the man flinch and aim his weapon on him.
“I said knock it off, a-mee-gos. Or she gets it. Com-pren-day?” Hilber shouted. He looked ridiculous in his shorts. His one eye had taken a blow and was nearly swollen shut, but his good eye was darting all over the room, looking for danger in every corner. “Ever try talking to a bunch of Mexicans without their leader? No offense.” He nodded to Armando.
“I’m Puerto Rican,” Armando shot back.
Christy was still having difficulty balancing. Kyle watched her feet and ankles twisting over the debris.
“Will you fucking stop with the wiggling?” Hilber screamed at her and bent her backward. Kyle knew Hilber was past his breaking point and was highly dangerous. A sudden jerk could set his trigger finger askew and Christy’s head would explode.
Christy’s expression got wide, she was damn scared. Her gaze clung to him like he was her lifeline. She wouldn’t take her eyes off him.
She glanced down quickly and then right back up to Kyle’s face in a deliberate attempt to send him a message. That’s when it hit him. He watched in slow moti
on as she fumbled to balance herself on one foot. One long black leg bent at the knee and rose up slowly. He knew what was coming next. He hoped Armando was ready because they were going to go on her mark.
Christy jammed her heel back into the fleshy portion on the inside of Hilber’s right thigh. At least three inches of the deadly weapon ripped and tore away at his skin. The deputy screamed. Blood spurted across the room from Hilber’s severed femoral artery.
Armando hit the other gunman with a roundhouse kick to the nose. The man’s weapons clattered to the ground like pickup sticks. He was dead before he landed on top.
The outside door burst open and a herd of hefty gray-hairs stormed in like elephants in musth. Guns drawn. Flack jackets flapping, unable to be fastened at the sides. Kyle was going to train his weapon on them when he heard Fredo’s voice. “Hold it, Kyle. Friendlies.”
Kyle was never so happy to see a bunch of overweight retirees in his life, even though one of them swore at having missed the chance to fire a weapon.
Cooper looked between Kyle, Armando, and Christy, and then kneeled to examine Hilber, who was trying to stop the bleeding by holding onto his thigh, but to no avail.
Gunny was there too. “Let the sonofabitch bleed out,” he said to Cooper’s arched back.
“Can’t do that,” Cooper answered. He quickly fashioned a tourniquet from his medic kit and the spurting stopped in mere seconds.
Christy stood in the middle of the carnage, still trying to get her balance. Her dainty pink toes were exposed on her right foot, her left still wore the stiletto. Kyle swept her up in his arms and took her to a corner, where he consumed every inch of her body he could touch with kisses.
Sirens were blaring outside as the younger version of the elephant squad arrived in full battle gear. Everyone silently began checking the dead, whispering among themselves. There was a lot of nodding of heads as whispers were passed around from man to man.
SEAL Firsts Page 30
