I was trapped. She knew it. Brad knew it. I knew it. It was going to make CNN anyway, once I closed out the case. The cops, or someone, would sell some of the clips or screenshots to TMZ or whichever tabloid was the highest bidder. Cassady and Bobby appeared behind her. The circle of what could be her emotional demise was now complete.
“Jade, I now know how your father died, but it’s nothing you want to see. Believe me.”
“Show me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Gone was the forlorn little girl I’d seen just a few minutes earlier. This was the Jade I’d seen several times now -- intense, focused. Her green eyes as hard as marbles.
I nodded. “Brad.”
He said, “Bobby, can I wire it into your TV?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Brad picked up the computer and took it into the living room. “Can someone please bring the keyboard and mouse?”
I grabbed them and we followed him in. I handed them to him and sat next to Cassady on the sofa. Jade sat on one of the chairs in the corner and Bobby sat on the sofa arm, next to me. He wrapped a big arm around me, his way of trying to make up for my near disaster. We waited quietly as Brad hooked everything up and once again, the tension in the room ramped up.
Bobby leaned over and whispered, “Bro, this ain’t a good idea.”
“I know, but it’s what she wants.”
He nodded and glanced at Jade. She was deep in thought. Brad flicked on the computer and TV and waited as it came to life.
“Click on any folder and then on one of the clips.”
Brad nodded and maneuvered the mouse. Cassady held my hand and we all stared at the screen. The first clip that came up was of Cicero on his deathbed. He was struggling against the ropes as Reggie taunted him with a piece of cake, holding it close to his mouth, then pulling it away and greedily devouring it. I looked at Jade who was staring transfixed at the screen.
“Is there sound?” asked Jade.
Brad looked at me. I shrugged and he replied, “Yeah, but you don’t really wanna hear that, right?”
“Yes, I do.”
He sighed and turned it up. We all sat there horrified not only by the sight of a starving Cicero, but by Reggie Mount’s taunting laugh.
I stood up and grabbed my guns. “I’ve seen enough.”
Her eyes burning with intense rage, Jade looked at me. “I haven’t.”
Brad clicked on another clip. It was of Bobby and me as Reggie fired his gun, the bullet slamming into Cicero’s, long dead skull. Jade whimpered and Cassady squeezed my hand. Brad closed out the clip and brought up another. It was of Bobby smashing Reggie’s head open on the concrete floor and his sickening scream as he died. All eyes turned to Bobby who was holding his breath. He let it out, stood up and left the room.
“Jesus Christ,” said Brad quietly.
Tears streamed down Jade’s face. She went into the bathroom and began sobbing. Cassady followed her.
“Brad, make sure you copy all the files.”
“I will.”
I went into Bobby’s room. He was loading a double banana clip into an AK-47. A second AK, already with a double mag, lay on the bed. “You should’ve let me blow that hell hole to kingdom come.”
“Evidence. You know that.”
“Yeah, of me killing him.”
“I already told you, it’s self-defense. Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”
“I lost control.”
“You saved our lives.”
Jade rushed past me and flung her arms around him. Bobby, completely taken aback, didn’t know how to react. I made the motion for him to hug her, which he did.
“Thank you for avenging Daddy,” she said, and started crying again as she buried her head into his big chest.
He held her tight and I left them alone, closing the door. Cassady was in the hallway waiting for me. We held each other, but said nothing, the images from the video clips stealing any possible dialogue. The door opened and Bobby stepped out, an AK-47 in each of his bear paws, looking like any action movie star. Except this was real.
“Let’s smoke those mothers.”
He handed me an AK and we headed for the front door.
Chapter IV - Firefight
I pinned the speedometer at 70 and kept it there. East of Riverside we headed up into the rugged San Gorgonio Pass, which connects the Los Angeles Basin to the Coachella Valley. Bobby went back to sleep while I drove and thought things over. At the very least, Tom and Ernie would be waiting for us when we got to the airfield. They had undoubtedly re-armed but so had we. An AK-47 is a fearsome weapon; 30 rounds in the banana clip and bullets over 2.5 inches in length that’ll go right through a cinder block without any hesitation, killing anything they hit along the way.
We came down out of the Pass and entered the Coachella Valley. I could see for miles in every direction, with the San Jacinto and Santa Rosa mountain ranges to the south and east. Palm Springs came and went. It’s often said that Orange County is the fraud capital of the world, but Palm Springs can’t be far behind. Shifty land developers jockey for the rights to desert acreage in order to build lavish golf courses ringed by multi-million dollar retirement homes. Hapless investors cough up their funds. Sometimes they get a return; sometimes the funds just vanish. Speculation and outright thievery contrast with the hard work and dedication of the Mexican date farmers who populate the southeastern end of the Valley around Thermal. Here, migrant families have gained their citizenship and built small date palm and citrus empires -- swatches of green in the surrounding desert. Just before Thermal, I turned off the 10 and headed south onto Highway 86, which skirts the southwestern edge of the Valley.
Bobby woke up and stretched, wiping sleep from his eyes. “Where are we?”
“Coming to the Salton Sea.”
We passed dilapidated tin-roofed houses, old tire dumps and abandoned vehicles. The flat, almost featureless desert to our right gave off the distinctive odor of creosote. Cottonwoods and willows rose in the salt marshes. The champagne-colored sky, swept by gulls and migrating geese, laid its heavy fingers across the uncertain blue of the lake water, while the smell of rotting fish and algae bloom wafted across the highway.
Bobby rested his chin on his right fist, staring off across the desert at ghost towns that had never really gained a foothold. Farther south we came to the Wildlife Refuge. Here, exotic birds dine on fish and local insect life. An owl passed right in front of us, sailing in a huge arc completely in control of its environment. At the base of the Salton Sea, the desert broadens into the Imperial Valley, which extends clear to the Mexican border. Water diverted from the Colorado River irrigates this agricultural oasis. Alfalfa fields alternate with vegetables; sheep and cattle graze under the broiling sun.
As we neared our destination, Bobby sat up straight, ran his hands across his stubble and took a sip from a water bottle. “We’re close, aren’t we?”
I nodded.
He looked at me curiously. “How do you wanna handle this?”
“Obviously it’s a trap. We know it, and they know we know it.”
Bobby nodded. “It sure ain’t to save Halladay.”
“And Clipper’s not gonna be there. It’s gonna be Tom and Ernie.”
“So why won’t he be there?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe he’s too preoccupied with Richard.”
After that, we drove on in silence. This part of the desert is very isolated. The occasional 18-wheeler. Few cars. No cops. An endless vista of alternating green and brown rows of earth and alfalfa, growing rapidly under the hot California sun, vanishing in the hazy distance. Bobby checked his guns, laying out multiple spare clips, readying himself.
I said, “If we can, we bring ‘em in alive.”
He looked at me sideways. “You know that’s not gonna happen, right?”
“We can try.”
“Okay, Boss.”
Again we fell silent. As we neared El Centro, the traffic thickened,
and we stopped at a Valero Station for gas and water. Then we turned east onto the Evan Hewes Highway, passing carrot fields and groups of cross-country bicyclists laden down with gear.
When we reached Holtville, population just under 6,000, we turned north on Holt Road and then east on Norrish. Then we came to a sign: Holtville Airfield, 6 Miles. A few miles out of town, the fields turned brown and we were back in the desert. Off-road vehicles towing dirt bikes joined us in a steady caravan. It was nearly ten o’clock and I knew we had to hurry.
We crossed a canal and approached the airfield. The paved road ended in a parking lot. In hard economic times, people will find any convenient place to set up a makeshift home, particularly if they have a family. As with other semi-public areas, this was no exception. More than a dozen RVs, some in clusters, most sitting solo, had staked out their claim to a little piece of desert. It was heartbreaking to see the families, complete with barefoot, shabbily-dressed children. It reminded me of old photos of the Great Depression.
The caravan of weekend off-roaders were also pulling into the massive parking lot, unloading their dirt bikes and quads and strapping on their gear. We pulled over and took stock.
“This won’t work,” said Bobby. “We’re too exposed.”
“Yeah, so are all these families and off-roaders.”
“I’ll recon. Maybe we made a mistake.”
“Okay.”
Bobby got out and went over to a grizzled looking guy, sitting out in front of his RV, sipping on a beer. Again, I looked over Clipper’s drawings, trying to get a handle on his deranged mind and what exactly might be waiting for us. Bobby clambered back in and closed the door.
“At the back of the airfield, due east from here, there’s a dirt road that leads to the old runway and the barracks, mostly fallen down now, and a bunker that’s apparently pretty much intact. That has to be the one in Clipper’s picture.
“Is that where the off-roaders go?”
“No. They’ve staked out an area north of here, about half a click.”
“You ready?”
“Let’s get to it.”
I cranked the motor to life and we took the perimeter road around the massive triangle that formed the airport. At its farthest point, the road made a hard right, running east in a straight line for at least a mile, dwindling into dirt. From the ruts, it was obvious that a fair amount of traffic had recently passed through.
“Hang on,” said Bobby. “Pull over. I gotta check something.”
As soon as he got out of the van, I knew where he was going. When he got back in, the whisper of wry smile played on his lips. “Harley tracks.”
“Los Muertos.”
“Yep.”
“Route 8 is only about 3 miles south and it runs parallel to the Mexican border.”
“Maybe that’s why Clipper chose this area.”
“Because of its proximity, you mean?”
“I dunno, bro, but it kind’a makes sense that maybe they’ve got plans to jump the border once it’s done.”
I nodded. “Yeah. They’re outta East LA, but when I ran a check on them, the origins of the club is in Mexicali.”
“Anyway, we’re not just gonna be dealing with those fake cops. The tire tracks prove it.”
He was right and there was nothing we could do about it but man up or turn around and drive back with our tails between our legs. And that was out of the question. Nevertheless, I felt the cold flush of fear. What most everyday citizens don’t understand is that a bar fight is nothing compared to premeditated violence. The first happens in the heat of the moment, mostly without time to think it through. The latter, though, that’s a whole different story. You get ready to do battle knowing there’s a very good chance of getting seriously hurt, or seriously dead. Up ahead several old, crumbling buildings, similar to the ones Clipper had drawn, leaned crazily, being slowly subsumed by the ancient desert floor. I didn’t see any other vehicles or people, so I pulled over and killed the motor. We slipped on our Kevlar vests, pulling the multi-pocketed jackets over them. We grabbed our sidearms, making sure they were locked and loaded, and the AK-47s.
In silent meditation, Bobby and I climbed out of the van and walked toward the airstrip, which appeared to be deserted. The sun was already blazing and beads of sweat formed on my forehead. The old runway was now a wasteland of cracked, buckled asphalt. The whole installation was no more than 65 years old, but the merciless sun and man’s restlessness had turned it into a ghost town. We walked slowly toward what had once been Navy training barracks. Not much remained other than the concrete flooring slabs. Here and there squatters had built campfires; charcoal and ash were still visible in the dirt. The carcasses of small animals, etched white by the sun, lay in heaps as if swept together by some unseen janitor.
As we moved toward the back of the installation, we came to a crumbling retaining wall built of mortared rocks. A flock of ravens, perched on the wall, croaked a warning but held their ground, their ancient eyes expressionless. We skirted the wall and stopped at a jumble of boulders, perhaps 50 yards long and 20 feet tall that formed a natural barricade in front of us. It formed a soft “U” and I figured it surrounded the bunker, at least partly, on three sides. Bobby clambered to the top while I covered him. For a long time he crouched among the rocks studying the scene. Then he came back down.
“It’s there, all right. Looks just like the picture. No door. Concrete walls and roof, but no signs of life.”
“Let’s pincer them and try to get the drop on ‘em. If a firefight starts, we’ll catch ‘em in our crossfire.”
We both drank some water and as we waited, gathering ourselves, we heard voices coming from the other side of the boulders. Although we couldn’t make out what they were saying, it didn’t take a genius to figure out it was most likely about us. They were expecting us and must have emerged from the bunker. I put my index finger up to my mouth and Bobby nodded. From here on in, it was silent running; we turned our cellphones to vibrate. Bobby motioned that he was going left and that I should go right. I made my way slowly along the base of the boulders, trying not to crunch gravel. It was hot and getting hotter. I heard the rattle and froze. About 10 feet in front of me and just above my head, was a large Southwestern Speckled Rattlesnake, clearly irritated that I’d disturbed its morning sun time. Eyeing me with great suspicion, its perfect stone camouflage had blended it in with the rocks, rendering it all but invisible. Stepping away from the warning sound, I had to avoid the rattler by making a wide semi circle. I knew this could expose me, but had no choice. Safely past the rattlesnake, I moved back toward the wall just far enough away that if it decided to attack, at least I’d have a chance to escape.
As I neared to the end of the boulders, the voices grew louder. I peered around the corner and froze. Standing on top of the bunker was a lookout; a massive biker wearing his club cut, Los Muertos. Sitting in the shade not far from the bunker entrance were Ernie and 3 other Los Muertos, all armed to the teeth with automatic weapons. I didn’t want to stick my head out any further, so I pulled out my phone and clicked on the camera icon, carefully edging it around the wall. This way I could press my face up against the boulders, and see where Bobby was. My phone buzzed as his text came in.
‘2 many. Surprise lost. We go it hot.’
I texted back, ‘I’ll clip the lookout. Draw their attention. U cover me.’
‘K.’
I flipped up the sight on the AK and very quietly eased the barrel around the side of the wall. Although I knew they would kill us given the chance, I didn’t want to do the same, so I took careful aim at the biker’s leg.
That’s when I heard it -- a man’s scream, wretched, tortured, sub-human. I froze and watched as Ernie got to his feet, pulled out his gun and went inside the bunker. En masse, the bikers flexed toward the door when several gunshots rang out. They got to their feet, clearly agitated as Ernie came back out, a gun in his hand. No one said anything, but this was a bad turn of events. All I c
ould think of was that he’d killed Halladay. Either him or Tom, I didn’t know which. Maybe that wasn’t the plan. Maybe their orders were to take me alive so I could end up hogtied next to Halladay. I didn’t like the idea and I felt cold emotion come over me. It felt good in a weird way and I knew I was ready. One of the bikers, a hard looking dude covered in black, jailhouse tats, got in Ernie’s face. Now distracted, they’d given us back the element of surprise. I stood up and moved quickly around the wall. The argument was heated and no one realized I was there, that was until I let go with burst of AK rounds over their heads: BRAAAPPPPPPPPPP! The disagreement came to an abrupt halt as they froze and looked at me, the nasty business end of my AK aimed right at them.
“Anyone of you motherfuckas makes a move and I’ll fucking kill all of you!”
Ernie looked at me, his expression more admiring curiosity than dread fear. The other bikers didn’t look scared either so much as insulted that a single gringo had got the drop on them. They probably thought they were worth an entire SWAT team. Of course they had no idea I had Bobby in reserve, a one-man wrecking crew, his AK equally trained on their nasty asses.
The biker who had been arguing with Ernie stepped toward me, his Tech 9 still in his hand. “You got some fucking balls, cabron.”
I aimed my AK at him. “Drop your weapons and I mean now, bro!”
I hadn’t seen the biker at the back slowly bringing up his gun, but Bobby had. BANG! A single round from his AK hit the biker in the side, exited his back and slammed into the bunker wall before the blood spray had time to hit the dirt, and dry instantly in the blazing desert sun.
Something strange happens to humans when they make the decision to engage in a deadly firefight, and I have seen it before in some of the other gun battles I’ve been in. The eyes stop blinking. The jaw sets hard. The face loses all expression. It’s the complete opposite of what is portrayed in the movies. As one mind, they brought up their guns. As one, Bobby and I cut loose. As one, they opened fire. In a gun battle, you don’t have time to think. You react. As Sheriff "Little Bill" Daggett said in The Unforgiven: “Look son, being a good shot, being quick with a pistol, that don't do no harm, but it don't mean much next to being cool-headed. A man who will keep his head and not get rattled under fire, like as not, he'll kill ya. It ain't so easy to shoot a man anyhow, especially if the son-of-a-bitch is shootin' back at you.” This was no exception. AK-47 rounds make a terrible mess of a person, tearing flesh, snapping bones, exploding blood and gore with equal enthusiasm. Our bullets obliterated them in a hail of angry lead.
Cicero's Dead Page 21
