The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy

by Gary Ballard

  Bridge raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You’re actually willing to talk about peace? I was under the impression you wanted to wipe Los Magos out.”

  The corner of Nacho’s mouth curled up with an evil twitch. “I ain’t a completely, what do you call it, unreasonable man. What are Los Magos gonna give to make it happen?”

  Bridge studied the man’s expressions carefully. Despite his words, Bridge didn’t think Nacho gave a good goddamn about peace. The Mexican had the air of confidence that came with secret knowledge, with some hidden assurance that Bridge couldn’t quite puzzle out yet. “Give? Normally in a negotiation, the injured party is not the one expected to give up anything. You attacked them after all. You killed their leader. What more do you think they are going to give up?”

  Nacho’s smile got impossibly bigger. “Yeah, I did that. Who they got in charge over there, eh?”

  “Stonewall.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Mr. Richardo. You know, we used to be tight, ‘til he got pretensions of, what do you call, grandeur. Started thinking he was some kind of savior for the peoples. That brother thinks his shit don’t stink no more. But I know him. He got all kinds of blood on his hands. He used to use me and my boys as muscle, back when he worked with los blancos, that Twiggy fucker. Used us so he wouldn’t get the white boy’s hands dirty. He ain’t no saint.”

  “What does that have to do with the war?”

  “Nothing really, except for this. The Families are gangs. We’re soldiers. We ain’t no fucking Red Cross. We ain’t no charity. Stonewall wants to tie himself down with all these parasites, it’s his call. But the Families are about earners. El Diablos will do the business Los Magos wants to forget.”

  “Drugs and whores and violence the old fashioned way,” Chimuelo finished. The words sounded so plastic coming from his mouth. Bridge took a look at Nacho’s second-in-command, and was immediately ill at ease. Almost sterile in appearance with hair meticulously close-cropped, his light-olive skin was covered in tattoos of all varieties, but something about the work bothered Bridge. There was a clarity of line, a fastidious neatness about the ink that felt out of place on this dingy train among his dingier companions. Chimuelo smiled and the illusion was broken. His teeth were a crooked, yellowed mess. They looked as out of place on his face as a dog turd on a lace doily. “There’s a reason El Diablos don’t have a citizen’s brigade.”

  “The way I hear it, it’s because you shot them all.”

  A flicker of anger broke Nacho’s confident façade for a moment. “They were weak,” he hissed. “We don’t go no room for non-earners in our tribe. And we ain’t got no room for weakness.”

  “The citizen’s brigades are for people with nowhere else to go!” Aristotle blurted out. “These people have had their homes stolen from them, their lives irrevocably destroyed. And you want to turn them into common street thugs?”

  Bridge tossed his bodyguard a baleful glare, but Nacho was unfazed. “The weak get crushed by the strong, big guy. That is the way of the world.” Nacho stood up and stretched, his arms reaching from the seats on one side to the seats on the other side of the aisle. “Would you like to prove how strong you are?” he said with a gleam in his eye.

  Bridge interrupted. “We didn’t come here for a wrestling match.” As he spoke, more things occurred to him. He paid special attention to the guns the bodyguards carried. Most of the Families were well-armed, but their gear was old, made up of various pistols, knockoff AK’s and cheap Chinese copies of other popular guns. What automatics they had were unreliable. But the gear these three displayed was almost obscene. Not only was it pristine, still suffused with that new gun smell, it was upscale. Two had real H&K submachine guns, the new caseless types that could empty a 40-round clip in seconds. The other carried an automatic shotgun with a 20-round drum as if it was a sack of potatoes. El Diablos had a sugar daddy. Bridge knew a guy that could get that kind of gear, but his ۀear, butprices were way beyond the means of any of the Families, or so he thought.

  “What did you come here for then, homes? After all the shit we’ve taken from Los Magos, after the way they threw us aside like garbage to take in all these leeches, you expect we’re going to throw down like we did and not finish the job? We just going to bloody their nose then kiss the booboo and make it all better? Stonewall wants peace, he can have the peace at the end of this!” He grabbed the shotgun from his bodyguard and squeezed off three angry shots, filling the car with thunder and smoke. Pellets ricocheted everywhere, tinkling off the metal walls, lodging in the bulletproof glass. A few tore the flesh of one of the bodyguards and he fell to a knee momentarily. A blazing stare from Nacho forced him back to his feet with gritted teeth, his face a crisscross of bloody, razor thin scratches.

  Nacho turned back to the trio. “Huh. That thing really does work. Guess you was smart to bring him after all.” He nonchalantly tossed the gun back to its bearer.

  “You want to earn? You say this is all about earning the old-fashioned way?” Bridge began. “How much do you think you’re going to earn when CLED intervenes? You think they are going to let you turn the streets of LA into a goddamn war zone without lifting a finger? Stonewall isn’t being weak, he’s being smart. Talk to him. Look at the patterns. Los Magos and the rest of the Families have taken in those people because CLED is turning them out. They are confiscating whole blocks because one house on the street is a meth lab or a Trip pusher is doing business on the corner. They are scorching the earth, and if you start kicking up shit, they are going to annihilate all of you.”

  Nacho flexed the muscles on his right arm, the tattoo of a devil winking at Bridge in the flickering light of the train. “They are welcome to try, Bridge. If they can take me, they deserve to win.”

  “Just like you took your predecessor?”

  “The strong survive, homes.”

  “You on board with this?” Bridge asked Chimuelo.

  “We’re the strong ones,” the lieutenant commented. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Sure, I get it. Let this idiot put himself out there and get his gourd shot off and the gang’s all yours. Nice.”

  Nacho eyed his inferior suspiciously, then smiled back at Bridge. “If he thinks he can take me, he’s welcome to try any time. You fuck with el toro, you get the horns!”

  “CLED’s going to destroy the Families over this. You know that, right?”

  “Fuck that bunch of pussies, man. If they don’t want to get on the bus, they can burn with Los Magos. Got it?”

  “Is that your final offer?”

  “It’s my only offer, Bridge. You tell Stonewall either he hands it all over to me or I come after him full bore. Either El Diablos is on top, or dead.”

  “Message received. You want to drop us off?”

  Nacho snapped his fingers and the train ground to a screeching halt. Bridge surveyed their surroundings. The train had stopped somewhere in the Warehouse District, no station in site. One streetlight burned weakly over a darkened street. Bridge cursed to himself. “Thanks asshole. We’ll never get a cab out here.”

  “Welcome to Los Magos Town,” Nacho replied.

  The trio had barely stepped off the train when the door shut behind them. The train trudged away loudly. “Let’s go find a street term so I can call Stoney.” They walked three blocks before finding a term that worked. Stonewall was not pleased.

  “Stoney, he’s not interested in peace,” Bridge began. “He’d rather go down in some dumbass macho blaze of glory than talk to you.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Stonewall replied. “This is the worst possible time for this.”

  “Is there ever a good time for gang war?”

  “Not really. Look, Los Magos is going to call in the other Families for help on this. I need you to come give them a briefing.”

  “Awww, man, are you serious? It’s not enough I had to talk to that cocksucker, you want me to do a book report in front of the class, too?”

  Stonewall chuck
led without humor. “I don’t think it’s going to help, but you can relay exactly what was said. Maybe it’ll make them realize that when one of us gets hurt, we all do.”

  “How very egalitarian of you.”

  “Funny. Can I count of you, brother?”

  Bridge didn’t want to help. He wanted to be done with this. The next few days were going to be dangerous on the streets. Bridge considered closing up his business for a week or so to let things work out while he hid away in safety. The last thing he needed was to be knee-deep in the middle of all the shit. But the tone of Stonewall’s voice was hard to refuse.

  “All right, fine. But that’s it. I tell them my story then I walk. I’m not getting any deeper in this shit, understand?”

  The reply was cold, and Bridge didn’t believe that Stonewall would let him walk that easily no matter what he said. “Understood, brother. Give your report and skate. I’ll call you with the details.”

  They hung up and Bridge checked the bus schedule. The closest bus was a mile away so ۀmile awahe and his bodyguards hoofed it to the stop. They took a ride to a nearby bar to wait in sullen silence for the call Bridge dreaded.

  Chapter 7

  March 8, 2029

  12:51 a.m.

  Bridge was overjoyed to find that the Parliament meeting took place in an actual building as opposed to a train. Perhaps a moving target could be secured more easily, but he’d had enough of train cars since this thing began. From the outside, the warehouse was completely dark, looking for all intents and purposes completely abandoned. But once Bridge got close, he could see that the windows were intentionally blacked out so that not one sliver of light escaped into the dark night, and the walls were soundproofed as well. The only indication of life surrounding the place came in the form of the guards who only appeared visible when needed, otherwise blending into alleyways and the windows of adjacent buildings. Streetlights up and down the block were strategically darkened to maximize the shadows around the warehouse. Bridge, Mu and Aristotle were shuffled into a side office and made to wait with three guards, two Asian and one black.

  After twenty minutes of interminable boredom, Stonewall poked his head into the office and motioned for the group to follow him. “Come on, Bridge, we’re ready for you,” he said with a chilly flatness that put Bridge on edge.

  “What’s the scenario, brother?” Bridge asked.

  “Not good. The other families really don’t want to get involved. I’m hoping your report convinces them to help.”

  Bridge stopped the ex-footballer with a hand on his arm. “What are you expecting them to do? Fight for you? I’ve dealt with a few of these guys. They aren’t what you’d call generous. Shit, the AsiaTown factions will barely talk when they aren’t shooting at each other, and the damn Bottle City Boys don’t have more than what, thirty actual physical bodies? The damn Panthers are on this non-violence kick. You’re lucky they even let you talk about this.”

  “They gotta do something, Bridge. Exert some political pressure, make Nacho back down. Threaten to join up with us against Diablos. Something. We can’t have a war.” Bridge could tell how much this was tearing Stonewall apart, and a tiny tinge of empathy poked through his Bridge’s instinctual detachment.

  Stonewall had ambitions. Deep down, the ex-footballer had a heart the size of a small galaxy. During their escape from a frame-up last year, Bridge had learned all about Stonewall’s background as a political science student in his teen years in Mexico City. Stonewall had revealed a lot to him that day, from his leadހLos Magos clan of the Five Families, to his political ambitions. Stonewall was practically a Communist, opposed at his core to the pervasive control exerted by the unfettered capitalism inherent in the Local Governance Licenses granted to corporations like Chronosoft. Stonewall had revealed his ultimate aim for the Families over a bottle of whiskey one night. Stonewall wanted the Families to carve out their own benevolent society in the midst of the corrupted social system Chronosoft controlled in Los Angeles, with its own self-supporting infrastructure negotiated away from the corporation. It would be an egalitarian commune in the heart of the city, a starting point and an inspiration for future generations that proved that the system of exploitation offered by the LGL was not the only way, that there was a better way forward. To that end, he had started the Citizens’ Brigades, assigning regular non-gangster citizens to Families for protection from CLED once the police had started forcibly evicting people. Entire streets had been confiscated and evicted on the flimsiest of excuses, all perfectly legal thanks to a local ordinance passed under the administration of the new mayor, Arturo Soto.

  If Los Magos and El Diablos went to war, real to-the-mattresses war, that dream would die in fire. If the two families didn’t end each other, the collateral damage from the fighting would prompt the Chronosoft Law Enforcement Division to end the fighting the easiest way they knew how: with overwhelming force. There would be a lot of deaths, a lot of damage, and in the end, what survivors remained would be marginalized as violent criminals and rabble-rousers. Disdain and fear would replace what empathy the general public might have for the downtrodden citizens of the Five Families.

  Bridge followed Stonewall into the warehouse proper. Stacks of crates formed a barrier around the central meeting area, a dimly lit circle of chairs and bodies. Bridge surveyed the Parliament. Each Family could send up to five representatives to any Parliament meeting, with no more than three bodyguards from each allowed in the circle. Bridge knew each of the members of the Parliament, some more than others.

  To his right were the delegates for AsiaTown, the Chinese, Korean and Japanese gangs in Los Angeles. Each ethnic group had sent their leader. The oldest was the Chinese leader, Shen Ju Hui, a middle-aged man of average height with floppy dark bangs that framed the dour expression permanently affixed to his face. Bridge never took his expression literally. The story was that many years before the riots, Shen had been the target of an assassination attempt by a rival. The gangster had been infected with a nanotech neurovirus, an invisible killer that had attacked his nervous system with an army of tiny motorized robots. The virus had wreaked stroke-like havoc, but somehow he had survived. The sickness had taken its toll, leaving the right side of his mouth in a permanent scowling droop, but his intellect had been unaffected.

  Next to Shen stood the Korean Guk Hyo. Though an inch shorter than Shen, Hyo nevertheless dwarfed the Chinese gangster with sheer bulk. The man was thick, his body enhanced with all sorts of black market nano-steroidal treatments. His head resembled a cake, flattened and round, with a cap of dark hair presiding over shaved sides dyed shockingly blonde, with blonde sideburns that tapered down to a point at the corners of his mouth.

  Almost lost next to his two larger colleagues, the Japanese delegate, Me delegaasakazu Matsumoto, appeared tiny at a rakishly thin 5’1”. Despite his wispy physical appearance, Masa exuded an air of danger. Strapped across his back was a katana probably a foot longer than it should have been, so large that Bridge had been sure its bearer would be unable to use it effectively when first they’d met. Bridge had been wrong. The streets buzzed with tales of his prowess as a swordsman, and Bridge made sure never to underestimate the man.

  The New Panthers delegation sat to Bridge’s left, a klatch of three angry looking black men in dark biker leathers with the red, green and yellow of the African flag sewn as a quilted patchwork across their shoulders. Their leader was Huey Chahine, an imposing 6’3” figure with a thin afro and mirrored sunglasses that he wore despite the dark hour. Bridge had tried on repeated occasions to work some form of arrangement with Huey, but the insistence of the New Panthers on non-violence had cut them out of many of the deals Bridge could offer. Unlike El Diablos, they didn’t appear to hate Bridge so much as distrust him enough to keep him at arm’s length. His skin color likely didn’t help. The Panthers had an antiquated though not quite undeserved apprehension about doing business with white men, especially those carrying Bridge’s shady reputation.


  Far-el, leader of the Bottle City Boys, had the most disturbing appearance. Like C@l@C@ of the Magic Men, the Bottle City Boys, or BCB, were a virtual gang. Unlike Magic Men, they were a Family of their own with their small cadre of physical foot soldiers. Their members never left the crèche, living their entire lives on the GlobalNet. Formerly known as the Kandorians, after the Kryptonian exiles whose city had been stolen from Krypton and shrunk into a bottle in the Superman comics, the gang had changed their name to Bottle City Boys after the Superman copyright holders had threatened legal action. Since legal action was useless on those with no known physical presence, the threat of extralegal action in the form of a GlobalNet war had convinced the Kandorians to change their gang’s name. Far-el appeared in holographic form as a giant crystalline golem, easily eight feet tall and as wide as a car. His eyes glowed an evil green, and the shape of his mouth implied a constant scowl. Prismatic rainbow light constantly spilled from that mouth as he spoke.

  Far-el’s bodyguard, Johnny Cloud, bore his holographic projector. Cloud had been a member of the Hollywood Starlets militia during the riots. Once the Starlets disbanded, a few including Cloud had stayed on as the foot soldiers of the Bottle City Boys. Bridge had done business with Cloud shortly after the riots. Though he was so massive many assumed he juiced, Bridge knew that all Cloud’s muscle came naturally from dedicated weight lifting. But what most didn’t know, because Cloud rarely spoke to anyone besides Far-el, was the incredible intelligence the man possessed, something Bridge had aided. Cloud had hired Bridge to find a vendor of intellect-boosting nanodrugs. The transformation had been remarkable. Before, Cloud had spoken like any normal jackoff. He hadn’t started out dumb, but he hadn’t been exactly Mensa material, either. Afterwards, he had been able to hang with Aristotle without blinking. Bridge was never quite sure why someone who rarely spoke would care about intelligent conversation, though he had his suspicions.