by Bella Knight
“This goes so far up the food chain that I’m just…” said Pocero. “Most bad people are standing over the victim, or at least they leave a trail of evidence so wide even a puppy could find it. Or brag about it; or get caught in lies. But the cartels… hate ‘em.”
“They’re about to get taken down,” said Frenchie. “Got me an army of FBI with lots of agents, including ones that can read legalese. We’ll find out exactly who these idiots were dealing with, and which fingers were in which assassin pies.”
“And all the cases those guys did… some real bad guys are gonna get off.”
“Looks like they were going the other way, getting people in prison to cover up their doers,” said Frenchie. “Gonna let a lot of lowlifes out who committed other crimes, or who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Pocero looked at the car. “We need to find out what they did, and when, where, and why.”
“The why is easy,” said CSI Jared Diamond. He held up an evidence bag. “Lieu, Agent. Inside this wallet is a…” He held the open wallet up to the glaring sunlight.
“A black card to a Cayman Islands bank,” said Frenchie. “Thanks, Diamond.” She snapped a photo and sent it to her people. “Got a cute little brand-new agent, loves financial crime. Girl can give Daisy Chain a run for her money.”
“Nice,” said Pocero. “We done here?”
“Here, you are, yes,” said Frenchie. “But I’m just getting started.”
Wraith sat in her hidey-hole, growling. She had no idea where Saber was, or what he was doing. He could be doing anything from buying guns from terrorists, homemade or outsourced, to infiltrating a cartel, to ferrying a witness out of the line of fire, to setting himself up as an arms dealer’s runner. It could be anything at all, even infiltrating the very cartels that had caught up with the two Las Vegas ADAs. Their bank accounts were being examined, their houses and lovers’ condos seized, their neighbors questioned, and all of their cases examined with a fine toothcomb.
She needed to bust the cartel. She knew the one’s she’d taken out, but she was six months out of the game. Six months of dead bodies, transfers, new faces, alliances made, alliances broken. Two cartels had allied to bribe the two men. She had her own tom-tom network, but some of those people were in deep. Her network of informers was down. Once the money and favors stopped, the information stopped as well. She’d passed on all her information long ago, to keep that vital network up and running, including: new agents pretending to be gunrunners and low-level cartel members, assassins and thieves, pimps and whores, friends of friends with money and time, and the ability to pay or do favors for information.
Thieves. She knew exactly the person that needed to be tracked down. She couldn’t go herself; she was marked. The latest news was that the silver-blonde gimp was worth two keys of coke, ten thousand dollars, or a very big favor, dead. Including the proof of the said death. Sigrun was out; she wasn’t as streetwise as she needed to be for this op. Frenchie was too FBI. That left… her own people, and she didn’t want them in danger. But, they were already in danger, with their place being shot up. Besides, they would be furious, chomping at the bit to go after someone, anyone, to find out any intel. She thought long and hard, then called Thandie.
“Thandie, I have a thought.”
“Oh, shit,” said Thandie. “Any chance of finding intel on those bitches who shot up our place? And why wasn’t I invited to the party?”
“Yes, but it’s gonna be tricky,” said Wraith. “And, the whole thing was over in four minutes. Five; actually, and you were ten streets over having a burger.”
“Shit, woman, spill,” said Thandie.
“His name is Runner, and he’s a thief. He knew me as Echo. A whisper, a hint. Someone to whisper things to him, and he would whisper back. You need to be Echo. He’s never met me, I’ve never met him. Have to arrest his ass if I did.”
“What do you need?”
“We know about the cartel whose ultimate name is Lyuben. They came after us. We need the other name. They’ll be coming soon.”
“I’m your thief whisperer,” said Thandie. “How do I get his attention?”
Wraith laughed. “I already did. You’re whispering to him in, I kid you not, a confessional.”
“Shit,” said Thandie. “I need me a rosary or a crucifix. Name me a pawnshop, I can pick up both. What name are we looking for?”
“I won’t tell, because I may be wrong. I need confirmation, then Frenchie will make two calls, one to the DEA, and one to the ATF. And the cartel will cease to exist in this country. But, I need the name.”
“I’m on it,” said Thandie. “Now?”
“I’m sending Lyehov to cover you. He should be there in ten-nine-eight…”
“Man looks good in a suit. Runs faster on his blades than Gregory can on regular feet,” said Thandie.
The Queen they were watching was doing some singing in a mall. She nodded to him as he took his place watching their principal, then disappeared into the crowded shopping center. Thandie had a pawnshop to visit, and some whispers to deliver and receive.
Thandie had her hair pulled back tight, her pouf tamed. She had a rosary peeking out of her pocket and a silver cross around her neck. She strode into the confessional at the appointed time, just like she owned it. She sat down, and a voice said, “Speak.”
That didn’t sound like what the TV and movies said. The “Forgive me for I have sinned,” dropped from her lips, and she said, “whisper to me. Lots of dead people now, ADAs, finding lost trails.”
The voice spoke softly. It said, “One of the names is Lyuben.”
“Already know that one,” said Thandie, in a near-whisper.
“The other name is Silva Michoacana.”
“Damn,” said Wraith, in Thandie’s ear. “Tell him, thank you.”
“Thank you,” said Thandie.
“How have you been?” asked the voice.
“Run over, shot, and whispering in the dark,” said Wraith. Thandie repeated the words.
“Scarlett is gone,” said the voice.
Wraith sucked in air. “She was… extraordinary.”
Thandie said it for her, “She was… extraordinary.” She sighed.
“She was all that and more,” said the voice.
“I know who you are now,” said Wraith. “But far past caring or needing to… pursue.” Thandie repeated her Spider’s words.
“I was the best at what I was,” said the voice. “As are you. I know your identity as well.” There was a smile through the words. “Said the Spider to the fly.”
Wraith laughed, low in her throat. Thandie spoke for herself. “She prefers to be called Gunny.”
“A rank she’s never held. No matter.”
“Is Silva in the country?” asked Wraith. Thandie repeated the question for the whisperer.
“He is… near,” said the voice. “Near your other friends. Time for them to scatter, I think. There is a hot wind coming.”
“I know,” said Wraith. Thandie repeated, but there was no reply. And then the voice was gone.
Thandie took her time, stretched, and left the booth. “Boss, what now?”
“Now, we’ve got people in Pahrump to warn, and Silva to capture. Man’s been on every Most Wanted list and Please Remove from Humanity list for nearly a decade. The Great White Whale of the DEA, ATF, CIA, FBI, and even Homeland, ‘cause he likes to sell drugs and guns to terrorists.”
“Mama, can I have some toys?” asked Thandie.
“Yes,” said Wraith. “I’m going to give you a list of goodies to pick up.”
Thandie’s wicked grin upon leaving the church gave a Catholic granny pause as she passed by the sacred place and out into the street. The light and heat hit Thandie like a hammer. She slid on her shades and her driving gloves, and then she headed out to find a killer.
Sheriff Bob was warned about a minute before his wife. On the phone tree cascading outward from Vegas, all the way out to Hemet, Cal
ifornia, and as far upward as Reno. Silva’s six pictures were sent out, including his favorite killers. The FBI and DEA were all aflutter to catch him, until Homeland landed a meaty brogan on everyone. Bob said he wanted out of any credit. He just wanted to help catch Silva, and every single one of his people, from lieutenants to foot soldiers, and even hangers-on, were called. He warned his people about the influx of three-letter agencies, sent out for more ground coffee, and dug out their largest coffee urn. They were bound to drink it all, and not reimburse his office for that, or for use of the conference table. Homeland was like that.
Bob perused the pictures. Silva had a square face, a lantern jaw, black Roman-style hair, a huge nose, and tattoos from his neck to his waist. He liked to wear light, gabardine, collared shirts, in shades of tan or brown, covering his tattoos. His wife was Luisa. An ordinary-seeming Catholic woman, always wearing an intricate golden cross around her neck, with adorable black curls sprayed within an inch of their lives. She was believed to be one of his former contract killers. Her eyes were absolutely dead, so Bob believed the rumors to be true.
Timo, Silva’s youngest son, was tall, with a narrow face and bedroom eyes, married to Ana and Velisa, never having divorced the first wife when he married the second. They supposedly had a compound near Morelia, in Mexico, hence the name of the cartel. He primarily did the money laundering. The middle child was a daughter. Her name was Jezebel, and she was a lawyer, and had gotten many of her father’s capos out of prison. Realia and Johana were twins, and they were the firstborn. Known as “Las Flakas,” or skinny girls, they were both assassins, and tended to butcher their victims. Realia liked axes, and Johana liked scythes. Their brother Luis, born less than a year after them, was dead, and they were suspected to have offed him to keep their hands on the reins of power. Lovely family, thought Bob.
Their various lieutenants were put on the board in Bob’s office. If any of his people (or anyone from his wife Xenia’s office) noticed them, they were to call Homeland and the DEA on a joint speaker call, and then let them hash it out about who caught whom. He didn’t care; he just wanted the assholes out of his jurisdiction.
The Valkyries had come and taken his wife and daughter. He had no idea where they were; there were noises about Key West. There was a dual pack of Iron Knights and Valkyries roaming the streets in pairs. The lettered agencies knew about them. The DEA was happy to get free eyes and ears. Homeland was furious, but because they were taxpayers with no records, most of them ex-military or law enforcement, they couldn’t order them off the roads.
Realia stupidly checked into a local hotel; the DEA took her out at three in the morning. Her two axes were confiscated and tested for blood, they found eight different mingled blood samples inside the handle. She disappeared into a federal Supermax within three hours.
Everyone knew Silva was nearby, and if Realia was somewhere, her twin Johana would be close by. The motorcyclists cruised and cruised, like sharks circling. Bob pretended the Homeland hack (Rugers) wasn’t ordering him around like a puppet by simply walking away anytime he started barking orders, and not permitting any of his officers or staff to approach him. Rugers had extremely-short blonde hair, narrow blue eyes, and was clean-shaven. He carried himself like a football player. He had zero respect for anyone that wasn’t “on his team.” He bossed his own team around the same way, so Bob chalked it down to a lack of respect.
When the man barked at Tallee in the diner while Bob was having his coffee, pancakes, and extra-crispy bacon breakfast-for-lunch, in peace, Bob finally had it. He waved Tallee away, and said, “That woman you were just extremely rude to is a grandmother to a single mom, and she was a single mom, herself. She works hard every single-damn-day to keep food on everyone’s table, and most especially on her grandbaby’s table. So, if I ever hear you speak with disrespect to anyone in this town ever again, especially Tallee, I will make absolutely certain I have spoken to every single supervisor, all the way up to the Commander in Chief, about your behavior. Just so you know, every single officer, including me, wears body cams.” He pointed to his. “I’ve recorded about eight instances just like this one, so far, inside the office, until now. And now I have a new instance of your massively disrespectful behavior. Now, shall I distribute this footage, or are you going to behave In. My. Town?”
Rugers turned a bright red that started shading to purple. Bob simply stood and stared at him, still holding his coffee cup in one hand, the other on his belt buckle. Without a word, Ruger stood up, threw a ten on the table, and left.
“Don’t let him break anything in the conference room as he’s leaving,” he warned a staffer. “And, just so you know, after this is over, the footage is going everywhere.”
The staffer, a man with brown hair, brown eyes, and permanent creases around his eyes, stood, shook himself like a dog, and grinned. “Thank you, sir,” he said. He shook Bob’s hand. “He’ll get sent to Nome, Alaska, for sure.”
Bob grinned. “They’ll put up with his bullshit for about two minutes there,” he said. The man gulped his coffee and was gone. His ego sent packing by Bob’s words. The entire cafe clapped. Bob grinned and went to finish his food.
“On the house,” said Tallee, giving him a bill with only a smiley face on it.
“You know I can’t do that,” said Bob. “Then I’d be like that asshole.” He grinned, threw down his money (that included a generous tip), put on his hat, and went toward his car.
He saw the bikes zooming by as he entered his vehicle. Normally circumspect, but they were not following the speed limit. He got in his vehicle and followed them, and called in a “suspicious circumstances,” a code that meant that something seemed to be happening, and that he needed assistance to come in from another angle. Valkyries had spotted the strange Kawasaki bikes, and were following, circling.
Deputy Rolfson answered the call and came in from the opposite side of town. He called Hannah at the DEA, and she said, “Already near there.”
Bob decided to hang back and let the DEA work, and pulled over when he saw the bikes slow down. It was lucky he did; spray from bullets hit the Valkyrie’s bikes, and the riders laid the bikes nearly horizontal to avoid the bullets.
“Shots fired!” he said into his shoulder mic. He ordered the streets blocked and cleared in all four directions, and then announced over his car mic for the citizens to get indoors and to clear the area. He got his pump-action shotgun from its stand in between the front seats. He pumped it, and then stepped out of the vehicle. He circled around to the other side of the vehicle, and he waited.
Bob didn’t have long to wait. A woman he identified as Johana had a silver H&K .45 in one hand, and an axe in the other. The man on her right-hand side was Roberto Rosara, her right-hand man and main squeeze. Since it was so hot, the streets hadn’t been packed before, and it was two in the afternoon. The woman sighted on Bob, and he repaid the favor by shooting her in the leg, hoping that the “close by” DEA would capture her without getting killed. He used his shotgun to blow away Roberto with a song in his heart. That man had killed children, and Bob didn’t want that guy loose in his town.
That’s when Rugers, in his American-made car, drove up, blocked the street, nearly hitting Bob’s vehicle in the process, and stepped out into full view of the street. He turned, unholstered his weapon, and was shot in the chest and throat by Johana before the rose-haired “loitering teen” (DEA agent in the alley) could kick the gun out of her hand. Rugers fired as he fell, and then hit the DEA agent in the shoulder. She went flying back.
A second agent, a “homeless man,” came up and slammed a foot down on the now-downed Johana’s hand. She rolled and tried to use the axe, but the female DEA agent who had been shot, pointed her gun at Johana and shot her in the elbow, ruining Johana’s swing, and her arm, permanently. Johanna screamed out with rage.
Bob put the barrel of his shotgun against the top of her skull and said, “Hold on while we call an ambulance for you, ma’am,” to the agent, named
Hannah Wells. This time, the agents had no trouble cuffing her. Bob called for two ambulances, and saw the staffer slink through the vehicle, open the door, and deposit himself next to his boss, with a first aid kit in hand.
Silva slunk around a building a block away, and into an alley, but a biker was at the other end, roaring the engine. A second biker roared up and parked himself at the alley entrance. Bob removed himself from the scene with Johana, and then he ran around the DEA agents to the sound of the Harleys. Sigrun was on one end, and a huge biker was on the other, both pointing guns at Silva in the middle.
Bob jacked his double-ought shotgun, and the man raised his hands. “My daughters are alive?” he asked, in heavily-accented English.
“For now,” said Bob. “Come with us, quietly. Despite how we may appear, we aren’t a death squad, unlike the people sent after our friends.”
The DEA agents came up behind Bob. “Thanks, Bob,” said Hannah. Her voice was strained.
“Please make this bad guy go bye-bye,” said Bob. He took his cuffs out and handed them to her.
“Thanks, Bob,” she wheezed again. She cuffed Silva, and both Bob and the helmeted riders continued to cover her as she led him to an armored paddy wagon.
EMTs had Johana, and she was loaded into an armored emergency vehicle. They vanished down the street when Hannah nodded to them.
The staffer stood next to his now-ex boss. “Call the coroner, please,” he said.
Bob did as-was requested. “Never caught your name,” said Bob.
“Special Investigator Michael Stricks,” he said.
“Well, Special Investigator Michael Stricks,” said Bob. “I will be sure to let your bosses know that you, under fire, tried to save your boss, who was out of position, interfering with an ongoing investigation by other agencies, and stepped directly into the line of fire without even trying to hide behind the door of his vehicle.”
Michael wiped the blood off his hands with an antiseptic wipe from the first aid kit. “Wish it hadn’t killed him. All people need an opportunity to change.”
