Enemy in Blue: The Chase (Book #1) (The Cruz Marquez Thrillers)

by Derek Blass

  “What's going on?” Sandra asked.

  “Here,” Cruz said as he turned on the speakerphone. “Diego, I put you on speakerphone. Start from the beginning again if you would.”

  “I was telling Cruz I may know where your Martinez is.”

  “Oh yeah? How?” Sandra asked.

  “I can't get into my sources too much, but the more important question is where.” Sandra flashed Cruz an exasperated look. He smiled back at her and rolled his eyes. “I was watching the news and saw a pretty significant accident between a SUV and a motorcycle out by the old Ranch Store near the railroad tracks. Turns out that the people in the SUV were none other than your white cops.”

  “Shaver and Tomko,” Sandra said, finishing Diego's thought.

  “That's right. What's most interesting about this accident is that they never found the motorcyclist. No body in the vicinity. No motorcyclist injuries reported at any hospitals in the vicinity. No results from a five-mile radius search.”

  “Okay,” Cruz started, “so what are you thinking?”

  “The only person I think those two miscreants would be chasing fast and recklessly enough to nearly kill themselves would be Martinez. Now, and this may seem far-fetched, but bear with me. No body.”

  “Right.”

  “Quite honestly, no one would survive getting run over on a motorcycle.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Only other thing possibly moving in that area? A train.”

  “Ehh, yeah, but what does that...”

  “What if Martinez jumped on a train to get away?”

  “From his motorcycle?”

  “Why not,” Diego answered indignantly.

  “I mean, I guess trains don't travel that fast and it wouldn't be that hard to catch up with one. Seems pretty incredible,” Cruz said.

  “Wait, wait, wait!” Sandra cried. “Think about what we just saw at Martinez's house!”

  “What?” Diego asked.

  “Well, when we got there the door was open and the house was pretty trashed. But, and I said this to Cruz, it looked like a struggle took place in the house—not a ransack. If Shaver and Tomko went to that house looking for the drive, they would have turned it upside down,” Sandra explained.

  “You think Martinez was there when Shaver and Tomko went to look for the drive?” Diego asked.

  “Yep, and I bet Martinez got out with the drive and those two chased him down.”

  “Couldn't catch him though,” Cruz said.

  “No, they didn't,” Diego said. “You know, I think you two should head east down those railroad tracks to the next town. I would check the local hospital first. He's got to be banged up if there was a struggle. If that's a no-go, then check local pharmacies or drug stores.”

  “I think that's a good plan. We're already on our way,” Cruz said.

  “Okay, Alfonso and I are trying to figure out if we can fix the video we have here. I wouldn't count on it though.”

  “We'll call you when we get there,” Cruz said. He hung up the phone.

  “Feels like we're a couple steps behind,” Sandra said.

  “We are, but that's to be expected. We aren't a part of the action, and the way things are going I'd say we keep it that way for as long as possible.”

  * * * *

  Martinez leaned out of the train car and saw a city looming in the horizon. That was his stop. He pulled his cell phone out and texted Carmen: Almost there. Call when you cross border.

  He leaned back and figured it to be about an hour until the train got near the city. It was his first bit of downtime since all the shit hit the fan. As he thought about what happened, and how Williams had died, he began to cry. Martinez pulled his legs in close and put his head on his knees. It was a raw moment like none he had ever experienced before, but he was unimaginably alone.

  He realized he never even had the opportunity to mourn the loss. Except in the strictest sense, Martinez and Williams were brothers. They had spent five years together as partners. The stress, loss of life and tragedy involved in their jobs were enough to bond the two eternally. Outside of work, they planned on being godfathers for each other's kids and organizing family events on scorching summer days.

  Martinez wasn't sure if he could even remember what it was like before he and Williams became partners. While he would never admit it, with Williams dead and Carmen gone, he felt naked. Ultimately, he didn't know what to do with the video, just that he had to protect it. More than ever, he intended to fulfill Williams' mandate and disseminate the contents of the video, but stumbled on how to do that or who to trust in the process. He was sure that media types would just want to make a quick buck on the video, while he wanted to assure its maximum impact. This was all foreign to Martinez. The whole situation clawed at his confidence.

  Martinez tried to shake off the feelings—blaming them on the stress of the situation. He pulled his pant leg up and realized that his calf was more swollen. The point of entry of the bullet was shriveled and raised. The wound smelled. Initial signs of infection, Martinez thought to himself as he gently touched the area. Nothing to become crazy about though. He would be at the hospital soon.

  He rolled his pant leg down and looked out of the car again. Those thoughts must have immersed him longer than he knew because the city was now visible. The conductor blew the train's whistle as they made their way over intersections. The beast lumbered on into the outskirts of the city and slowed down by about fifty percent. Martinez watched a sign approach slowly and then pass with a glint from the sun: “Westchester—Pop. 42,156—Elev. 4341.”

  Martinez readjusted the homemade tourniquet on his leg. He gritted his teeth as the tightening made his bloated calf feel like it was going to burst. Some sort of liquid ran down to over his ankle.

  The train ventured in from the city's outskirts, but still not into its heart. Martinez was fairly certain that this was as close as he could get to the hospital on the train. He pushed the bulky car door open some more and stood on the edge. Wind swept Martinez's hair back enough to cause him to worry about hitting the ground at high speed. He planned on jumping onto his left side to avoid his injured leg, but knew that even the best laid plan was bound to fail in circumstances like these.

  People waiting at railroad crossings shot him astonished stares. He looked ahead for a softer patch of ground than either cement or glass-ridden dirt. There was a spot, about four hundred feet ahead, that appeared to have some bushes and growth around it. Martinez braced himself and watched with growing apprehension as his spot approached. The “growth” was just tall, reed-like weeds. It seemed he wasn't going to avoid glass or other trash as the whole path along the railroad was littered with debris. Figuring that this was the best place to jump, Martinez bent down on his left knee and sprung as far as he could from the perilous wheels of the train. He landed on his left side but his momentum immediately spun him and his right leg crashed down onto the ground. He screamed in pain as he lay on his back in a cloud of dust.

  Another scream came from somewhere behind him. “Holy shit! Wha—what the shit!!” Martinez opened his eyes and all he saw were two blood red eyes. He immediately tried to pull back and sit up but there was a hand on his shoulder.

  “Calm, calm down man. Shit. You crazy bastard, whatchudoin' jumping from trains?” As the passing train blew the dust away, the outline of this stranger's face began to appear.

  “Whoooeee!” he screamed and then emitted a hellacious belly laugh. “I swear I couldn't tell if you was the whiskey playing tricks or for real—but you sure as shit for real!”

  “What?” Martinez managed to mumble.

  “You just jumped from a moving train, that's what! Musta been goin' 'bout twenty or so. Here, lemme help you git up.” The stranger grabbed Martinez's hand and next thing Martinez knew he was half standing and half crouched over. Rib pain could now be added to the list.

  “Here, here—come sit over here. I got a nice little setup over next to this abandoned wareh
ouse.” Martinez looked up at the voice and saw an older, ragged bum. “Come on man!” The bum put his arm around Martinez's shoulder in an apparent attempt to help him walk. Suddenly, Martinez couldn't tell if he was dreaming but he felt a hand brush his back pant pockets.

  “What the fuck you think you're doing?” Martinez screamed as he tried to spin away. The move wasn't so successful with a bum leg.

  “Damn! Whatcha talkin' 'bout?” Martinez got a better look at the bum who threw his encrusted mitts back into the air. A mouth half full of rotted teeth flashed an I-didn't-do-it smile. “Just tryin' to help! Say.” His attention turned to something on the ground, “What's this?” Martinez instinctively felt his jacket pockets and noted that his mini-safe was not there.

  “What? What is it?” Martinez asked as he began to gain his bearings.

  “Shiny little box. Looks like someone left me a gift.”

  Martinez looked and saw the bum holding his safe. “Hand that over please,” Martinez said as he tried to straighten up. Pain darted up his leg throughout his body.

  “Shit—hell no man. You landed in my fuckin' territory. This here shit mine.”

  “Listen to me,” Martinez implored, “I'm having a pretty shitty day, okay? I'll repeat this once, nicely...give it to me or you are fucked for real.”

  “Hell no. This shit's mine.” Martinez heard a click and saw a reflection off of a knife blade. He started laughing. The laughter built until Martinez was laughing so uncontrollably that the pain in his ribs made him stop.

  “What the fuck you laughin' 'bout?”

  “Man, fuck that bitch-ass knife,” Martinez said as he spit at the bum and pulled out his gun. “You wanna fuck with me?”

  The tip of the knife blade dropped. “Shit—put the whip away.”

  “I told you not to fuck with me. Now hand the fucking safe over!” The bum hesitated, weighing the perceived riches in the safe against guaranteed bodily injury.

  “You want this shit? You're gonna have to go get it, you lame-ass bitch.” With that the bum hurled the safe over the train tracks into what looked like an enormous mound of trash. “That's where I shit,” the bum said, staring Martinez down defiantly. Martinez stared back at the bum but started to hobble over the train tracks. He saw the safe sitting in between some cans of soda.

  “Didn't I tell you not to fuck with me?”Martinez shouted over the tracks.

  “Aww man, you're just a punk,” the bum said dismissively.

  “You think so?” Martinez said to himself as he turned to go back across the tracks. “How 'bout I show you what I got?” Martinez felt rage building and reasoning failing. Pain had whittled his patience away. He still teemed over Williams' death. “You wanna see what I got?” Martinez repeated as he crossed the tracks.

  “Huh? Man, I'm done with you. You ain't shit.”

  The chiding was too much. Martinez's better judgment was overwhelmed and he raised his gun at the bum. He pulled the trigger and shot the bum in his hip. The man collapsed to the ground, clenching the area. As he rolled around Martinez hovered over him, taunting him and asking if he still thought Martinez was a punk.

  “No man—no!! Leave me the fuck alone!” Martinez was jabbing the gun into the bum's cheek.

  “Still a punk motherfucker? Am I still a fucking punk?”

  “No!”

  Martinez's eyes refocused and he saw the man cowering below him. Fresh blood stained the bum's pants. The return to reality made Martinez ashamed of his actions.

  “Goddammit man,” he muttered. Martinez swiveled away from the bum and started to walk toward the hospital.

  “Hey! You can't just shoot me and leave me here!” When Martinez didn't respond, he added, “This shit'll come back to get you! Just wait.” By this point, the bum was fully tuned out. Martinez was spent and needed to take care of his leg.

  * * * *

  Tyler sat in a chair in the Chief's office, motionless and meditating. He could still taste the violence and rolled it around in his mouth. He replayed Tomko's horrified gaze over and over in his mind. The thrill of killing Tomko sent fantastic sensations to all regions of his body.

  “Tyler—how are you?”

  “Doing just fine.”

  The Chief came up next to him. “What's that in your pants, you sick fuck?” Tyler's face turned crimson but he didn't respond. The Chief shook his head in disgust.

  “I know how things went at the hospital, but why don't you tell me your side of the story. I'm delirious to find out how you managed to kill Tomko, but the invalid with one eye is still fucking alive!” The Chief pounded his fists on the desk as he finished his sentence.

  “Shaver had a gun hidden under the sheets of his bed. If you want to be so critical, go kill these bastards on your own.”

  “Really?” the Chief said, moving around his desk toward Tyler. “You really think you can come into my office, my lair, and fucking talk to me like that?”

  “You're a step too close to me,” Tyler said. Just as he did, the Chief let a telescoping baton fall from his side and he swung it at Tyler's left shin. The baton connected with a hollow thud and sent Tyler reeling onto the ground. He pulled his gun out from its holster and fixed it on the Chief.

  “You asshole! What the hell do you think you're doing?”

  “Put that gun away, son.”

  “Fuck that—I'm about to splatter your teeth.”

  The Chief emitted a hearty laugh. “You can't kill me! I'm your dealer Tyler. I'm your pimp. The second you betray me is the last time you get to shoot up. Think about that and then put your gun down.” Tyler grimaced. “See, you can feel the truth. Imagine your life without me. You'll be tossing salads in jail so soon that you won't be able to tell anything else ever existed.” The Chief smiled as Tyler slowly lowered his gun.

  “You're going to track Shaver down and kill him this time. But, time is of the essence, my dearest Tyler,” the Chief said as he sat down on the edge of his desk. “The true prize we're chasing here is that fuck Martinez. We can silence voices, but that video is infinitely reproducible.”

  “Shaver should be easy, I'll just go back to the hospital.”

  “I think your anger has clouded your judgment, Tyler. First, there's no chance in hell that you would be able to get back into that hospital anytime soon. Second, it's a moot point because Shaver isn't at the hospital anymore.”

  Even in his anger Tyler had to acknowledge the scope of what the Chief knew. “Where is he then?”

  “Like I said, you need to track him down.”

  Tyler gathered himself and rose up, using the chair as support. He gingerly tested weight on his left leg. “There's one thing I haven't had the chance to tell you. When I went to Martinez's house, I saw two people leaving.”

  “Did you recognize them?” the Chief asked.

  “No, but I got their car's license plate number.”

  “Okay, give it to me and I'll follow up on them. You focus on finishing off Shaver. If you can't track him down and kill him in the next twenty-four hours, I want you to back off and find Martinez instead. I don't know what he intends to do with that video but...” A phone rang in the Chief's breast pocket.

  Tyler watched as the Chief listened intently to the caller. When the murmur from the phone stopped, the Chief slowly closed the phone and looked at Tyler.

  “Change of plans.”

  T W E N T Y-O N E

  __________________________________________________

  All right Diego, we just got to the hospital. Will call you if we find anything,” Cruz said, ending the phone conversation. Cruz and Sandra were still in their car. Dusk had drawn down on the city. Cruz watched exhaust fumes rising behind the car and looked down at his watch—four days since the incident. Fall was in full bloom all around them. The trees varied in colors from maple brown to pumpkin orange to bright gold. He felt a bit of disappointment because he had missed the start of his favorite season.

  “How do you suggest we go about finding Martin
ez?” Sandra asked.

  “Well, you're the hotshot so I think you'll have a better chance at getting information than me.”

  Sandra blushed and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I've got a few journalist tricks up my sleeve.”

  “Sounds good—let's go then.”

  They stepped out of the car and walked toward the hospital's main entrance. It was a medium-sized hospital teeming with people. Doctors and nurses passed each other. The ones leaving were grim from a hard day's battle, while those entering carried a renewed sense of hope. Patients in gowns stood outside smoking cigarettes. Others were pushed around in wheelchairs, taking in the last remnants of another nearly forgotten summer. Sandra and Cruz passed through the front entrance and walked to a reception desk. The line must have stretched forty people long and Cruz looked at Sandra in dismay.

  “Don't worry,” Sandra told him. “I've got some tricks—remember?” Cruz took a place in the line while Sandra moved up to the front. Each person she passed flashed her a contemptuous look.

  “Hey!” someone screamed. “What the hell you think you're doing? We've been waiting here for over an hour. Get to the back!” The people in the line murmured their assent. As if on stage, Sandra wheeled around with a flashy reporter smile already affixed to her face. Her eyes twinkled with a freshness as if they had never been opened before.

  “Everyone, I understand your frustration. My name is Sandy Gutierrez and I'm with 9 News.” Cruz heard a woman shriek behind him and whisper, “Oh my God! I watch her every night.” Sandra continued, “I know you've all heard about the murder of those two policemen and we're here to investigate it. We need to get some information before the cops get here though, so I'd appreciate it if you let me talk to the station attendant here first.”

  “You mean the double killing connected to the murder of that old Hispanic man?” asked the same man who had just yelled at Sandra.

  “We aren't sure they're connected yet, but that's why I'm here,” she responded.