by Gary Ballard
His mind began processing more of the visual information he’d gotten from his first look at the attackers. They were Magos, all right, and he recognized at least two of them, including their leader. “Give Hipo a call. Tell him Cierra’s here.” Cierra was the Shotcaller for the Eastsidez faction of Los Magos. Nacho had put a price on all Magos Shotcallers but bagging her would be a big-time score. Since El Diablos had assassinated Pedro, only Stonewall and Goyo were higher up the Magos chain than Cierra. Nacho might even give Gabby her territory. “Tell him bring the boys. All of them.” Castro began speaking frantic, whispered Spanish into his cell. Gabby set his jaw and vowed to come out of here with her head on a platter or his body in a bag.
Interlude
Cierra
March 10, 2029
1:3"#000"><7 p.m.
Things had not gone as Cierra had planned. This was supposed to have been a simple ambush. A small crew of El Diablos had threatened one of the business owners under Los Magos’ protection. Cierra remembered the crew’s leader, a juiced-up tough guy named Gabby, the kind of cholo with little between the ears. She had brought five of her own guys, plus another five of Goyo’s guys. Goyo had insisted on coming himself, a grating lack of confidence in Cierra’s abilities that she had been forced to endure. Twelve guys against four, with the element of surprise on her side. As had been the routine during this war, El Diablos would have the technological advantage, but it shouldn’t have been enough to overcome a 3:1 margin.
And yet, that was exactly what was happening. Chino had started things off well, taking out the first Diablo with ease. But Rodrigo had gone down to a lucky shot, and then the truck had blown up. She had not expected street gangsters to have fucking rockets. The explosion had taken out Macier and distracted Lopez enough that a flanker had perforated him. Now Cierra’s crew was cut in half, she was pinned and Goyo’s crew was nowhere to be found.
“GOYO!” she screamed out. Despite the crackling flames and sporadic gunfire, Goyo should be able to hear her. His truck had been parked within earshot to maintain communication, but as far as she could see through the smoke choking the area, his team had not emerged. As soon as the door opened, Goyo’s crew would have a clear shot at the flanker, but still the truck sat motionless. “Goddamnit!” she cursed. Snuggling down into better cover, she reached in her pocket and retrieved a disposable cell phone, punching the speed dial to Goyo’s cell. No answer. She thought she could hear the tell-tale beat of the mariachi music Goyo used as his ringtone coming from the truck, but the Shotcaller did not answer. She cursed again, disconnecting the call and picking a different number. Stonewall answered with fatigue oozing from his voice.
“Stonewall, I need help,” she blurted into the phone. “I’m down at Valley Shipping and Goyo isn’t fucking answering. I’m pinned down.”
“How many do you need?” The concern in his voice dissipated the fatigue immediately.
“Whatever you got in the area, papi,” she chuckled. “They got fucking rockets, dig? Get ‘em here quick.”
“Si. I’ll try to get Goyo with you right after, k?”
She slammed the phone closed. Her gaze pierced the smoke surrounding the first truck and bored into Goyo’s hiding place. Her teeth gritted, she fired a shot high into the cargo area. The truck shook a little as the occupants reacted. Movement in her peripheral vision betrayed the flanker’s location and she fired six quick shots. The crate he took shelter behind splintered, but the burst of return fire confirmed his survival.
Five minutes. Stonewall could probably manage two or three reinforcements in five minutes. She could hold out that long. The problem was getting iwas gettn and out of the place. The street outside was a dead end, and the surrounding parking lots all had very effective fences, some electrified. They had chosen this site for an ambush precisely to cut off Gabby’s avenues of escape. Unfortunately, that meant she was as trapped as he and that if both sides brought in reinforcements, they’d likely run into each other.
After the first few minutes, the shooting died down to a sporadic series of stop-start bursts, each side unwilling to chance a risky push. Cierra cursed to herself. As sure as she had called Stonewall, Gabby would have called in reinforcements too. Now both sides sat and waited for rescue.
A minute passed. Two. She needed to do something to reinforce her position. “Julio,” she hissed to the stout Mexican to her right. “Get that door shut,” she whispered, pointing to the loading door controls for the truck bay. He ran hunched over to the wall and slammed the button. The door creaked into action. As the lip of the door encountered the resistance of the burning truck, its rusty gears shrieked in protest, and stopped. The fake out had worked, as both sets of opponents poured concentrated fire on the general area. Cierra popped up and fired three quick shots at the flanker, recognizing him the minute two bullets tore through his neck and shoulder. She ducked down just as a burst of gunfire lit up her cover.
The gunfire died down again, and she heard feet shuffling in the office area. Loud moaning drifted to her ears from the direction where Sergio had been shot. An inward cheer of triumph echoed in her brain. If she was going down, at least she’d have taken one of them with her. A quick inventory of her pistol ammo revealed that she only had one more clip, not nearly enough with the wild fire the situation demanded. Lying on her stomach, she stretched across open space to grab Lopez’s discarded Kalishnikov and a spare clip. Ten rounds in the pistol and another 60 in the AK. ‘Stonewall better get here quick,’ she thought.
The unmistakable WHOOMP of a grenade went off somewhere outside, probably within the block. Someone had arrived, probably multiple someone’s from either side. Small arms fire crackled to life from the parking lot. A pitched battle had erupted out the front door, and she could see a few fleeting figures running for cover through the loading bay door. The cavalry had come all right, and had run right into the other cavalry. What fleeting relief she had first gotten from the possibility of rescue evaporated.
She didn’t have to be here. For just a moment, she considered what her life could have been had her father and brothers not been killed. They had spent considerable effort keeping her from the gangster life, protecting her to the last. She could have gone to college; she was certainly ‘book smart’ enough. But the crushing weight of her family’s street obligations had compelled her to follow in her father’s footsteps, and she was not one to regret her choices, even now.
Steeling herself, she gave Julio an indication of her thoughts. She would bolt towards the area where Sergio had gone down, circling around the crates to the office area, pinning Gabby and Castro in the office. He nodded and fired wildly into the office area, trying to give her cover. As soon as she left the protection of her hiding place, shots rang out after her. She was fast, and even so, the shots still almost found her, one even grazing her back sng her beconds before she got out of the line of fire. Stumbling forward with a line of searing pain across her back, she slammed a hand on the truck where Goyo’s men should be hiding, screaming Spanish curses denigrating the occupants’ manhood before rolling into cover. She landed beside the moaning form of Sergio’s dying body. His moans increased, then trailed off into a wet gurgle.
Ignoring the pain, she pressed her back into the crate and peered around the edge. Another line of crates over and she would have a completely protected run to the first office. From there, she could pour fire into the offices where Castro and Gabby had holed up. Her legs tensed for the run across the six feet of open space between victory and herself.
Before she could take off, the sound of a truck’s cargo door opening made her pause. Goyo had finally emerged from the truck. She turned her head and saw a strange sight. Goyo and four of his guys stood at the back of the truck, oblivious to the fact that they stood in an open firing line. The last of Goyo’s men lay slumped in the cargo area, his head swimming in a growing pool of blood. Goyo caught Cierra’s eye and he smiled. “My apologies, senorita,” he said as he raised his pistol.
“You would have made a fine wife.”
Interlude
Gina Danton
March 10, 2029
1:50 p.m.
The streets of Los Angeles flew by the screaming cop car. Officer Gina Danton held on firmly to the ‘oh-shit’ bar on the inside of the Toyo Cruiser as her partner, Officer Bobby Graves, dodged unsuspecting traffic at breakneck speed. Responding to a 13 Alert was serious business. As veterans of the LAPD during the 2027 Riots, both Graves and Danton had never expected that code to be used again. CLED had done a fantastic job on restoring order in the wake of the total failure of local and state governments that the riots represented. The mere mention of a 13 Alert had both Danton and her partner keyed up, and Graves drove like a madman when he was keyed up. “Take it easy, Graves,” Danton muttered, the white-knuckled grip on the handle hurting her hand. In response, Graves shot across three lanes of traffic and took a left turn against a red light.
“I got this.” Another right turn brought the car within a block of the CLED mobile HQ cordon. South Alameda Street was blocked off completely, cars being diverted into the oncoming lanes. Horns blared from all directions, curses were exchanged, and birds were flipped. Graves brought the car to a shuddering, screeching halt and erupted from the driver’s seat, barely stopping to put the vehicle in park. Danton yanked the emergency brake with a rueful shake of her head. She grabbed both shotguns from behind her head and took off after Graves. She hadn’t seen a guy so hyped up for the violence since her first partner with Lartner wAPD, the one who had been shitcanned for excessive force three months after she had joined.
Graves had already caught up to Lieutenant Bell, who stood huddled over the upraised trunk of his cruiser with two other officers and a suit. Gina recognized the suit immediately, and scowled. Every CLED precinct had its own standard issue suit. His official title read Comptroller of Public Affairs, but everyone called him the Chronosoft PR flack. The public face of the police department had suffered greatly under the overzealous leadership of the LAPD Neanderthals. They had been the type more prone to break a perp’s nose than investigate a crime, and they often found themselves the target of lawsuits, public pillories and uncomfortable media scrutiny. CLED had changed all that. The Neanderthals who joined from LAPD soon found themselves without jobs. Every large-scale arrest that might result in media exposure needed a signoff from the PR flack. This kind of loud operation was exactly the type of PR nightmare that caused the Comptroller sleepless nights. From the small amount of interaction she’d had with him, Marvin Pollock was a PR flack’s PR flack. His pale white skin glowed in the height of the afternoon sun, glittering with a profuse sweat.
“What do we got, L.T.?” Danton asked as she caught up to the huddle. The car’s trunk had a holographic satellite display of the area with blinking icons for assailants, officers and bystanders. Looking down Factory Place from her vantage behind the car, she saw two distinct columns of black smoke rising into the air. At least one car was ablaze, and she could see the darting figures of various officers taking cover, hear the pop pop pop of small arms fire that went with the muzzle flashes from the smoke-shrouded cul-de-sac.
The L.T.’s attention snapped up from the holo display and regarded her with disdain. L.T. was old school LAPD, one of the dying breed of cops who still thought women should get his coffee and keep their yaps shut. He had not seen the writing on the wall. The image-conscious CLED corporate culture would chew him up and spit him out eventually. Danton had testified only the previous week in a secret deposition. His misogynist tendencies had already caused problems, and an Internal Affairs investigation for sexual harassment was underway. The suit had nothing to do with Danton, of course. Gina would have started by breaking both of his hands had he tried anything with her.
The L.T. replied coolly, “Danton. Unknown number of assailants holed up down the end of Factory. As far as we can tell they got nowhere to go.”
“Who are they?”
Pollock stepped in. “Anonymous tips indicate there are high-level members of Los Magos trapped in the warehouse at the end of the street.”
Gina bubbled with excitement at the chance to use her new toys. As CLED had begun driving out the old culture leftovers from the LAPD, she had become aware of a subtle favoritism in the new administration towards officers who opted for cybernetic enhancements. Official LAPD policy had been noncommittal on the subject, but the unspoken rule had been that elective replacements were for street punks, not cops. Not only did CLED not discourage the metal, cybernetics deemed to improve job performance were actually covered under the company medical policy. Once Danton discovered that, she kd that, new that the ceiling she’d run into at LAPD, the barrier that kept most female officers in subordinate roles no matter how high they were promoted, was being slowly raised. As soon as she’d gotten the promotion to Officer, she’d booked an appointment for cybernetic eye enhancement. The deductible was steep, but affordable with company assistance. She’d still been afraid to go big metal; a pair of eyes was a good way to dip her toes into the cyber waters without too much commitment. Since the surgery came with a year’s warranty that would replace the cybernetics with her old eyes, she took the opportunity eagerly. Her dad, a long-time cop during the bad old days dating back to the ancient history of the Rodney King incident, had been none too pleased when she’d told him. Of course, he had also bitched about GPS in the cruisers so she ignored his curmudgeonly attitude.
Today would be her first opportunity to really show off what the eyes could do. She activated the telescopic feature, zooming her vision to 20x magnification. The change in perspective was dizzying at first, but she steadied herself quickly. The smoke caused a few problems, and she had to hold her head as still as possible to keep the dizziness from returning. She could see clearly past the front lines of police. A confused scene played out before her eyes.
There were certainly Los Magos involved. She could see at least six of them huddled in three clumps behind makeshift cover on the north side of the street. Their ragged line seemed to be positioned to protect them from both the police lines of fire as well as the opposite side of the street. Eight other gang members had taken up positions on the south side, some taking potshots at the police line. Gina recognized the gang signs of both sides immediately. “It’s not just Magos down there,” she said. “I can spot Diablos too.”
“How do you see that?” Graves asked.
“I see you’re putting your enhancements to good use, Officer Danton,” Pollock replied with smarmy satisfaction. “Glad to know the department’s money is well-spent.” The last statement dripped with sarcastic reproach, and Danton heard the L.T. grunt disapprovingly.
“You got cybered?” Gina had not told Graves about her surgery. After all, it was her goddamn business, not his. “I couldn’t even tell.”
“Your anonymous tip didn’t tell you this was a turf fight?” Danton asked.
“No. Is that a problem?”
“Only if you care who wins. Shit.”
“What?”
Gina had finally assessed the terrain. Magos was boxed in on the north side of the street, but the south side wasn’t quite closed off. A parking lot ran in front of the warehouse that closed the street to the east and off towards East 6th Street. One look at the sign on the building the parking lot serviced gave her a cold chill. “They aren’t all boxed in. That building on the south side there. That’s the Gun Club.”
“Fuck,” the L.T. sighed.
“What’s the Gun Club?”
Graves explained. “Used to be just that, a gun club. Only CLED sold that land and building to the Way of the Gun Church. You know, the crazy fuckers who believe that god is revealed in the muzzle flash of holy firearm justice?”
Gina aimed a crooked grin at Graves. “What? I like guns. I read their pamphlet.”
“We’re lucky those bastards haven’t aimed an RPG at the firefight in their backyard,” Danton said. “And if I’m not mistaken, the Chronosoft LGL give
s special religious dispensation to churches. We can’t step foot in that parking lot without permission.”
L.T. grumbled. “Those gun crazy fuckheads ain’t giving us permission. They’re probably locking and loading now to take care of it themselves.”
Pollock took a hurried glance at his watch, a sparkling jewel-crusted gold timepiece that only the most well heeled corporate showoffs wore these days. “L.T. we got about five minutes to shut this situation down, as quietly as possible.”
“Why five minutes?”
He pointed over Danton’s shoulder at the gathering news vans and on-foot vloggers gathering behind the cordon. “Them. This has gotten way too loud. If regular CLED doesn’t stop it in five, I’ve been informed that Special gets the job. They’ve already been dispatched, and their ETA is five minutes.”
L.T. ran off a long string of curses that would have caused a sailor to blush.
Danton’s confusion was apparent. “What’s Special?”
“You don’t want to find out,” L.T. growled. “We got five minutes. Danton, do your magic eyes see any good tactical solution?”
