Rip Crew

by Sebastian Rotella

  “What’s up, Major?”

  Krystak didn’t have to pretend to sound hurt.

  “Issue resolved,” he rasped. “But there’s damage. I need assistance.”

  “Shit, Major…” The voice was imperious and exasperated. “How bad?”

  “Bad. Not mobile.”

  Krystak was following Pescatore’s script.

  “The location we discussed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s far…”

  The music faded. A door slammed. Blake was walking and thinking.

  Blake said, “It’s isolated?”

  “Affirmative. A ranch.”

  “There are some fucking press photographers hanging around outside. But we can give them the slip. Lookit, I could helo up to your location. It’s a lot faster if it’s secure.”

  Krystak glanced up over the gun barrel at Pescatore, who nodded.

  “Good idea,” Krystak mumbled.

  “Excellent. The pilot’s on call. I’ll bring Danny for you. Can you hold out?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Everything resolved otherwise? With the…issue?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “On our way. Hang tight, Major.”

  Blake hung up.

  “Where’s the helipad?” Pescatore asked Krystak.

  “Beverly Hills.”

  “So what’s their ETA, maybe an hour?”

  Krystak nodded. Pain distorted his face. He leaned to his right, keeping weight off his injured side.

  “Who’s Danny, a bodyguard?”

  “Yeah. Medic. Served with me.”

  “I gotta ask: You and Blake trust each other, right? You have no doubt about his intentions?”

  Krystak regarded him coldly.

  “You really fucked me up,” he growled. “My arm, my knee. Busted ribs too.”

  “Yeah, well, your subcontractors damn near killed me in Italy. Not to mention what I been through today.”

  The raised eyebrows appeared to concede the point. Krystak asked, “Do you know what the hell you’re doing?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Blake’s presence with you and Noonan is gonna be incontrovertible proof of his involvement in the conspiracy. No way to deny it, finesse it, no matter how many lawyers he’s got, how many moles in the government. I’m taking him into custody and turning all of you over to the feds.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Listen, you decided to whack Noonan because he was a link to Robles. I’m asking if Blake might get the same idea. Whack you too. Erase connectivity.”

  “That’s a bunch of crap.”

  “Why? Because you’re tight with his father? Because you’ve done dirty work for the family? Killing people, covering up rapes?”

  Krystak snorted in disgust. “You talk too fucking much.”

  Pescatore thought he saw a flicker of doubt in the broad face. He looked at his watch. A few minutes past five. He got to work. He prepared his weapons, mapped out his plan, and turned the security camera system back on. With his iPhone, he sent the recording of his interrogation of Noonan to Maio in Italy with a note asking the prosecutor to hold on to it for the moment.

  Next, Pescatore wrote an e-mail to Facundo. He explained very briefly where he was and what was going on. He attached the file of Noonan’s recorded confession and asked Facundo to send the cavalry, but he held off on hitting Send.

  Pescatore stood near Krystak at the bay window, looking out at the Joshua trees, the afternoon sky. He waited. He sent the e-mail to Facundo at 6:17 p.m., when he heard the helicopter, and then saw it, emerging out of orange and purple cloudbanks in the distance.

  He crossed himself and lifted his crucifix to his lips. Then he dialed 911.

  “What’s your emergency?”

  The soft twang of the sheriff’s department operator’s voice fit nicely with the landscape.

  Pescatore gave his name and talked fast. “Ma’am, I’m an investigator with DHS. I need assistance. I’m about to engage armed and dangerous suspects at the following address…”

  The helicopter approached. Glass and metal glittered in the low sun.

  Pescatore continued, “My suspects in custody are James Noonan and Louis Krystak. I’m about to engage another homicide suspect named Perry Blake, and accomplices. They are armed and dangerous. I need backup as soon as you can.”

  “Mr. Valentine, that location is remote. We’re dispatching a resident deputy, but other units will take time.”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, I gotta go. Just send ’em quick. Thank you.”

  The helicopter circled high above the ranch. It was a medium-size, aquamarine-colored craft with room for half a dozen passengers. The pilot narrowed the circles, then widened them again.

  He’s doing reconnaissance before they land, Pescatore thought.

  After another five minutes, the helicopter descended near the parking area. Sand swirled. Dust geysered. The dogs barked and barked.

  The rotors came to a stop. Two men emerged from the helicopter. The pilot followed. He wore a blue flight suit, a belt holster, and a helmet with headphones. The three of them hurried toward the house.

  Perry Blake was the tallest. His walk verged on a charge, like he was getting ready to throw a punch. He wore a dark red designer warm-up jacket, matching sweatpants, and gym shoes, looking as if he had left straight from the workout. The third man was black, medium height, bull-necked in a bomber jacket and dress slacks.

  “Is that Danny?” Pescatore asked.

  “No.” Krystak sounded weak and defeated. “Jackson.”

  “Is he a medic too?”

  “No. A thug.”

  Bad sign, Pescatore thought. Maybe medical care isn’t on the agenda.

  “All right,” Pescatore said. “Just do what I say.”

  Moving as if in a dream, he pushed Krystak—short shuffling steps because of his cuffed ankles—toward the entrance. Krystak groaned and grunted. Pescatore positioned him at the end of a hall-like vestibule that extended about fifteen feet from the front door. Pescatore carried his Bersa and the assault rifle as well as the pistols in his belt and jacket pocket. He wore the backpack.

  Footsteps reached the porch. Pescatore crouched, sheltered partly by Krystak’s massive back and partly by the wall at the end of the vestibule. When the men entered, they would be hemmed in the narrow space without cover.

  A knock.

  “Major?” Blake’s voice was nasal and urgent. “You there?”

  Pescatore jabbed Krystak in the neck with the muzzle of the Bersa.

  “It’s open,” Krystak called.

  The door opened, and they stepped into the vestibule. They saw Pescatore behind his hostage, pointing the rifle at them with his right hand and the pistol at Krystak’s head with his left.

  “Hold real still,” Pescatore ordered. “Hands up.”

  Blake’s face tightened with surprise and anger. Sunglasses were propped on the upswept crest of hair. He was chewing gum, the long tanned jaw working rhythmically.

  “What the fuck? Who are you?”

  In person more than on television, Blake looked and sounded like an aging frat boy.

  “Hands up, goddamn it,” Pescatore said.

  “Perry,” Krystak said. “Take it easy. Let’s do what he says.”

  Blake raised his long arms. He glared down at Pescatore. His well-plucked eyebrows arched in recognition.

  “I know. Pescatore, the low-rent private investigator.”

  Pescatore felt oddly honored. Blake had probably seen his face in photos. Most likely when he’d given Krystak the green light to have him killed.

  “Bingo. Pilot, close the door behind you. Easy. Lock it. Now, all of you, step into my parlor. Real slow.”

  Jackson’s mouth twisted. He was in his forties. He wore an earring. His hair was shaved on the sides but not on top. His right hand drifted downward.

  “Jackson, don’t move!” Pescatore
snapped. “This AK isn’t gonna miss.”

  Jackson complied. Blake threw a sidelong glance at the pilot, who had removed his helmet and held it under his left arm. The pilot’s thick brown mustache dominated features that were a mix of canine and porcine. He stared straight ahead.

  Something’s going on, Pescatore thought. His heart was thumping.

  “Perry…” Krystak sounded imploring and reproachful.

  “Get moving, fuckers,” Pescatore snapped. “There’s an army of cops on their way.”

  “Okay, guys, you heard him,” Blake declared. “Everybody relax and follow orders.”

  Then he gave Pescatore a jagged smile. “Your call, Pescatore. I’m ready to talk business.”

  “Do me a favor, Blake. Don’t bullshit me.”

  Blake’s jaw hammered the gum.

  Still using Krystak as a shield, Pescatore swiveled, covering the newcomers as he directed them into the living room.

  “On your knees first. Hands on your heads. Then your bellies.”

  Pescatore removed the backpack. He pushed Krystak to his knees in the vestibule. Holstering the pistol, he advanced toward the prone trio. He disarmed the professionals first: Jackson, the pilot. After stuffing their guns into the backpack, he started toward Blake, who was on his stomach near a couch. Pescatore had seen the bulk of a pistol in the right pocket of Blake’s warm-up jacket.

  A foreboding nagged at Pescatore. Beyond the tension of the moment, there was something strange about the body language of his captives.

  Like they’re expecting something…

  Hesitating a few feet from Blake, he glanced around. A ripple of movement on one of the security screens caught his eye. And saved his life. The screen showed the back of a figure entering a window from the porch. Pescatore spun around to see a red-haired man in a denim jacket clambering through the open window and pointing a pistol at him. Flame leaped from the pistol at the same time that Pescatore pulled the trigger of the rifle, stitching holes across the front of the jacket. The man collapsed. Pescatore felt pain radiating through his left side.

  Then he was confronting a roomful of enemies, a nightmare whirl of converging threats. Jackson rolled and kicked, trying to sweep Pescatore’s legs out from under him. Pescatore sidestepped, twisting away, and sprayed volleys back across his body at Jackson on the floor, at Blake with a gun scrambling behind the couch, at the oncoming pilot who hurled his helmet as he lunged. It caromed off Pescatore’s left shoulder, which was preferable to a direct hit in the face but hurt like hell. The pilot tackled him, grunting, grabbing for the rifle. They went down in a heap and rolled back up, still struggling for the weapon. Pescatore pulled hard, then released his grip. The pilot crashed back against a coffee table. He was fumbling with the rifle when Pescatore yanked the pistol from his belt and shot him repeatedly.

  Pescatore rolled away, shooting wildly at where he’d last seen Blake, gunfire sounding. He dived through a doorway into the dining room. He pulled another of his pistols, reached around, and pumped bullets back through the doorway. There was no return fire. Seconds went by. Gazing through smoke, both guns out in front of him like a bandit, he surveyed the battleground.

  Jackson lay facedown, moaning.

  The pilot sprawled on his back on the coffee table.

  The red-haired gunman remained in the spot near the window where he’d fallen.

  Krystak’s manacled legs protruded, horizontally, from the vestibule.

  Blake was nowhere to be seen.

  Now what?

  The cell phone clipped on Pescatore’s belt was ringing. In fact, it had been ringing for some time, an incessant subliminal buzzing during the melee. Probably the sheriff’s department. Pescatore holstered a gun while keeping the other at the ready. Reaching with his left hand for the phone, he touched blood on his shirt above his hip. He answered in a whisper.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Valentine, this is the 911 operator. The deputy is three minutes from your location. What’s your status?”

  “Shots fired. Four down. I’m hit. One suspect unaccounted for.”

  Pescatore gave her a description of Blake and hung up. Crouching, he padded into the living room and retrieved the AK-47. Through the bay window he saw Blake outside, a pistol in his hand, by the Ducati motorcycle. Blake was frantically checking the ignition and the saddlebags, no doubt hoping to find the keys. He didn’t find them, because they were in Pescatore’s pocket. Blake took off running down the internal road away from the house.

  He plays the hard-ass, Pescatore thought. But he’s not exactly a gunslinger.

  Pescatore pushed the button on the security console to open the street gate for his reinforcements, though he didn’t see any yet. Hurrying through the vestibule, he glanced down at Krystak. The Major’s forehead had been shattered by a point-blank bullet.

  Not one of my rounds, he thought. Blake must have capped him on his way out. Blake came here to kill Krystak. That’s why he brought three guys. They weren’t taking chances with the Major, wounded or not. That’s why the last guy hung back, hiding in the copter, and sneaked up to the window. He was backup.

  Feeling woozy, Pescatore walked out onto the porch. Blake kept running. His gait was uneven. Pescatore had not missed entirely.

  Pescatore went down the steps. Planting his feet, he raised the rifle. He sighted on the tall receding silhouette. He tracked it.

  Now’s the time, he thought. Fleeing felon. Armed and dangerous. Justifiable. Do him. Get some revenge. Street justice. Do him. Make a contribution to society, addition by subtraction. Do him. Now’s the time.

  With more relief than regret, he realized that he didn’t have it in him. Not now. Not after everything that had happened in that house. His finger stayed on the trigger, his sights on Blake’s back.

  A cloud of dust announced the arrival of a Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department mini-truck. Lights flashing, the black-and-white vehicle sped through the pillars flanking the gateway. The driver swerved to the left and stopped in a defensive angle. He slid out fast and pointed a long gun.

  Blake faltered to a stop. He looked at the deputy and then back at Pescatore, who was still aiming at him. Blake dropped his gun. The deputy shouted orders. The deputy peered down the road at Pescatore, who put the rifle on the ground and waved. The deputy signaled at him to advance.

  Keeping his hands visible, Pescatore started forward. One step at a time, tottering now and then. He was deliriously tired. He felt like a zombie. As he trudged, he became aware of his surroundings. The beauty of the sky awed him, a symphony of light, clouds, and colors.

  A resident deputy was an officer who lived in the vast turf he patrolled, a home substation arrangement, the only law for miles. In his green cap and uniform, the deputy looked the part: raw-boned, cowboy boots, graying whiskers. He stood with a shotgun covering Blake, who was on his knees with his hands on his head. The deputy’s stance was alert, his voice hearty. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Valentine Pescatore. I called 911.”

  “Valentine, right, outstanding.”

  “I’m a contract investigator for DHS.”

  “Yeah, we just got a call from San Diego PD. And the FBI. They said you were in a situation up here.”

  Facundo moved fast, Pescatore thought. “Been a long day,” he said.

  The deputy went to work searching and cuffing Blake. Pescatore found it necessary to lean against the vehicle. He applied pressure to the wound at his hip. The deputy glanced at him.

  “You hit, son?”

  “Yeah. There’s casualties in the house. And a handcuffed suspect in the basement.”

  “The fire department is rolling.”

  The deputy placed a pistol, phone, wallet, sunglasses, and bottle of pills on the hood of the vehicle. He and Pescatore stood looking at the handcuffed man lying facedown in the road.

  The prisoner’s hair was rumpled and dusty. He emitted a kind of humming sound—between a moan and a sigh.
/>   “Who’s the suspect?” the deputy asked.

  In Pescatore’s light-headed state, a memory took shape. A gangster film on late-night television. The Roaring Twenties. Tuxedos, tommy guns, fast money, Cagney and Bogart, rise and fall.

  “Perry Blake,” he said. “He used to be a big shot.”

  Epilogue

  Méndez felt that the English translation didn’t do justice to the word rematar.

  The concept is clear: To finish off. Administer the coup de grâce.

  But some ideas do not cross borders unscathed. Matar means “to kill.” Rematar implies a repetition of the act as well as its completion—to kill the same person again. Execute an irrevocable sentence, extinguish a life that is for all intents and purposes over. He had investigated and reported on crimes in which assassins in Mexico—and Central America, Venezuela, take your pick—returned to rematar their wounded and doomed victims, to repeat and complete the crime with savagery and impunity, storming into homes, police stations, ambulances. And hospitals.

  After surgery, Méndez spent two days in intensive care. He drifted in and out of consciousness. His dreams were no longer speculative. He knew now the exact circumstances of his demise. A gunfight on a Saturday morning in the heart of America’s Finest City. The film of the ambush in the subdivision played and replayed in his head with small variations but the same events. Ending in his death on the floor of Porthos’s pickup truck. Which was strange because, officially, he was still alive.

  His assassination had happened despite layers of precaution and protection, despite the fact that he had accused his foes on the front pages, despite laws and institutions intended to prevent such savagery and impunity. In the final analysis, he was a dead man. His enemies wouldn’t stop now. He dreamed that the killers were charging into the hospital to kill him again.

  “Me van a rematar,” he yelled, sometimes out loud, sometimes in helpless silence. They are on their way. In the building. No time to lose. I don’t have a gun. Give me a gun, Athos. What are you waiting for? I’m going to fuck them up with a fuckload of gunshots, un chingo de balazos, sons of whores.

  When he thrashed awake, shouting and struggling against sheets and wires, faces appeared to console him: nurses, his wife, Athos, Facundo, a uniformed San Diego policeman guarding the room.