"Police," she said in a low, calm voice. "Keep your hands where I can see them."
Nico came around behind her, quick scan to the rear, nothing, then off at a forty-five degree angle to her right and rear. A man, the suspect from the picture; a young Hmong woman, dressed in skin tight pants and silk halter, stilletto heels, curled up on the couch, listening to him.
The girl gasped, then squealed in fear.
The Hmong man looked at them, kept his hands in sight...then grabbed the Hmong girl and pulled her in front of him --
"STOP!" Nina shouted in full command voice --
-- the girl screamed --
-- Nico stepped off, got a better picture, saw the man's hand caught up in his shirt tail -- "GUN!"
-- "DON'T," Nina shouted. "WE --"
Nico dropped his sight picture down and rolled the trigger for one shot; massive blast and concussion on the unprotected ears inside, muzzle flash in the dim room, and Hmong man's leg caved in backwards, dropping him, down, then Nina stepped in and clubbed the Hmong girl down, sweeping her leg out from beneath her, Nico stepped in and covered the Hmong man, still scrabbling for his waistband so he kicked him, hard, in the gut and stamped on the bloody wound and the downed Hmong man screamed, high and shrill and thready, Nina threw flex cuffs on the girl, then kicked the Hmong man in the head, knelt on him and grabbed a hand, pulled it back, he started to struggle and Nico leaned on the open wound again till he screamed, then Nina flex cuffed both hands quickly, pulled his shirt up over his head, and pulled out the Beretta 92FS tucked into his pants. Rolled him on his side, checked for any other injuries.
"Throw me the Blow Out Kit," she said.
Nico dropped the muzzle, pulled out the cordura cased Blow Out Kit and tossed it to her. She opened it up, pulled out an Izzy and ripped it open, then pressed it onto the open wound, tied it in, opened another and put it on what was left of the back of his thigh and shoved it in there, then wrapped Kerlix around the whole thing, cinched it down tight. She checked his breathing and his pulse at his throat.
"He'll live till we get him to the hospital," she said. "Nice shot."
"Hard to miss at seven feet."
"I know a lot of cops that do."
"Shouldn't be cops, then."
"There's that."
"So, don't mind me asking, but what the fuck are we doing?"
Nina grabbed up the Hmong man's head. "Who sent you to the building today?"
He just stared at her, his teeth skinned back in pain.
"Step on him," Nina said.
"Sure, why not?" Nico said. He put his foot on the fresh bandage and leaned. The Hmong man screamed. The girl shouted in Hmong, then switched to English: "You're hurting him! Stop it!"
"Shut up," Nico said. "You could get hurt, too."
"Let's try this again," Nina said. "Who sent you?"
He spat. Missed her. Nina sighed. "Okay, tough case. Guess I got you. Maybe the big bad OGA will make you into an enemy combatant and take your ass to Gitmo, stick your head in a sink full of water till you talk. Or you can give me what I want, and we'll keep you as a witness. What do you say?"
He spat.
"Wrong answer." She picked holstered her pistol, took out her cell phone, punched in a number. "Mr. Pham?" she said. "I need your help. Right now. Can you send some of your associates here? I'm at the address you gave me. Yes. Right away. Thank you."
The Hmong girl's eyes got wide. "You know...Mr. Pham?"
"You know him, little girl?" Nina said.
"Yes."
"You're gonna get to know him a lot better pretty soon."
"No! Please?"
Now, this is interesting, Nico thought. What the hell?
"He's on his way," Nina said. "But maybe you could go. What's this guy's name?"
The Hmong girl was sweating. She cut her eyes at the wounded man, back at Nina. "Cho. His name is Cho."
"Cho? Cho what?"
"Cho Trinh."
"Does he live here?"
"Yes."
"What's your name?"
"Lucy. Lucy Vang."
"Lucy?"
"Luc in Hmong. Lucy."
"Lucy, you've got about five minutes before Mr. Pham and his friends get here. A pretty young girl like you, I think you know what they're going to do when they take you out of here, right?"
"Whoa," Nico said. "I'm not..."
"Shut up," Nina said casually. "Back to you, missy. You his girlfriend?"
"Sometimes, yes, sometimes, " Lucy stammered.
"What does he do?"
"I don't know, he work for some people, I don't know what he does."
"Does he always have money?"
"Yes, most of the time, yes."
"Does he live anywhere else or just here?"
"Just here, I think."
"Where do you fuck him? Here or someplace else?"
"Here. Sometimes in hotel."
"What hotels?"
"Many...."
"Who does he hang around with? Who are his friends? Who else do you know that knows him?"
"Not so many, just a few."
"Names. Now."
Lucy started to rattle off names.
"Nico? Record these on your iPhone," Nina said.
He handed it to her, and she hit voice memo and began recording a list of names.
"Spell them," Nina said. "Addresses, phone numbers, places they hang out, where you met them. Anything at all you can remember at them."
She was still on it when a cruiser pulled up, hit the spotlight on the front porch.
"I'll deal with it," Nico said. He stepped out on the porch, rifle dangling, creds up in his hand.
"Stay where you are, secure your weapon," came a voice over the squad loudspeaker.
"Federal Agent!" Nico shouted. "I'm securing the rifle." He set it down, held his creds out. Two uniforms bailed out, one held back to cover him, the other approached, pistol out and down by his side, checked his creds.
"We got a report of shots fired," the uniform said.
Nina shouted out the front door. "Fredrickson, that you? It's Capushek!"
Fredrickson leaned back to peer through the door. "Detective? You need us?"
"No, we're good, I got it."
"I need to..."
"Just g'wan, I said I got it. Thanks!" Nina shouted back.
Fredrickson shrugged. "Cool with me. We're clear here. Later."
He went off and got back into the cruiser with his partner and they drove away, leaving Nico staring with bemusement after them. This had to be the strangest damn police department he'd ever run across. Or else he had the partner with the biggest balls and most juice of any cop he'd ever met. Maybe both.
As soon as the cruiser disappeared around the corner, a Hummer down the street turned on its lights, pulled away from the curb, pulled up next to Nico. Mr. Pham hung his head out the passenger side.
"Hello. Where is Sergeant Capushek?"
"Inside," Nico said. "Join the party."
Mr. Pham got out with three of the biggest Asians Nico had ever seen, and one small wiry one that looked to his experienced eyes as probably the most dangerous one. Leather car coats, the jacket of choice for the experienced street gunfighter on the Asian side, and hands conspicuously in the open. They brushed past Nico and entered the room. Nico scanned the street and followed them in.
Inside, the men ringed the wounded Hmong man and the terrified girl.
"This is what we're gonna do," Nina said. "I'm calling someone in, and then we're *all* gonna go someplace, and you, Mr. Pham, I need you to help with translation and persuasion, you understand that word?"
"Yes, Sergeant," Mr. Pham said in a chilly tone. "This word I know."
"Good. I appreciate your help...and your silence about this." She looked at Nico. "You down?"
"In for a penny, in for a pound," Nico said. "What the hell, I didn't much have career prospects anyway."
"Not like that. We get things done. I'm calling OGA Chick and havi
ng her meet us someplace. Mr. Pham...you have a place? A quiet place?"
"Yes, Sergeant," he said. "Very quiet."
"We don't hurt the girl," Nina said.
"As you wish," Mr. Pham said. "We must go."
"I will tell you...." the wounded Hmong man started.
"Too late, ingrate," Nina said. "Now we're on someone else's clock..."
Nico stepped back and said, "Well, it's never boring here in Lake City..."
Deon Oosthuizen
With his headset on and neck mike in place, Deon almost looked like a DJ/VJ himself, if it weren't for his skeletal build and his tactical clothing. He stood off to one side from the spot-lit DJ stand, out of the light, his guitar case leaning against a tall wooden stool. He grinned at Guz, seated at the bar, his guitar case between the stool and the bar and his leg pressed up against it, sipping a ginger ale and besieged by the girls circulating the floor who knew he was a friend of the house *and* seriously cute *and* not that interested, which caused them to redouble their efforts.
The lights were down, the strobes going, and it was going to be Lizzy's set soon.
Nate the Vj/DJ called it out: "And now, Miss Lizzy, let's give her a big Trojan Horse welcome!"
And the house erupted in shouts, whistles and claps.
Girl had a following, that's for sure...
Nate spun Prince's Cream, which was old enough of a song that even Deon had heard it, and appreciated it: ...this is it...cream...get on top...
Lizzy strutted down the runway, a pale blue wrap dropping to the floor as she went down, hitting the beat and working the skimpy blue halter and panties she wore....
...cause you got that burning desire...
Girl knew how to work, that's for sure. Never did privates, but then, she didn't need to. She was a main draw, and Lance T. never forced her to do anything she didn't want to do. Not least of all because it was a good idea from a business perspective, but it also paid to stay on the side of her boyfriend...
...get on top, cream, don't you stop...
Deon spotted the Asian shooters entering before Guz did; Deon had the high ground and the overwatch. He tapped the tone button on his set, then clucked out "Shave and a haircut, two bits..." on his throat mike.
Guz set his glass down, pushed his stool back, bent over as though he were lacing his shoe, effectively disappearing beneath the line of the bar.
"Four shooters, Asian, to your left, diamond formation, black leathers, tracking up the wall," Deon whispered.
"Got it," came the cool reply.
Guz still looked like he was fiddling with his shoe, though Deon saw his shoulder working as he popped the velcro on his guitar case.
"Stand by," Deon said.
Lance T came rushing down the stairs, headed right for the Asians who stopped when they saw him. Deon couldn't make out what Lance was saying, but it was obvious he knew these guys. What the....?
And now Nate cut into some Rob Zombie, 'Living Dead Girl'
Who is this irresistible creature with a love for the dead?....
"Hold in place, Guz." Deon said.
Guz nodded, raised his head nodding in beat to the music, slow casual scan, making the targets, nodding...
...on the devils wing...living dead girl...sing it to me...
"Acquired," Gus said.
"Acquired," Deon said.
...living dead girl...sing it to me...
Lance T
"There's a lot of people in here, you need to stay cool," Lance said.
"We're cool, man" the big Hmong man said, a hint of a sneer in his voice as he looked Lance up and down. "Don't sweat it, wrestler. We get what we came for and we're gone..."
Lance felt like elbowing the smug asshole right in the face. Hell, maybe he would...another time. He just had to get this shit out of the club right now. He had Kai and the security crew like rabid pitbulls straining at the leash, Jimmy and Deon and that scary-ass Mr. Normal they brought in here, armed to the teeth and probably drawn down on us right now, and an ancient Hmong player that for some reason people wanted to kill and other people were willing to send heavily armed players at the drop of a hat to protect.
Just another night in The Trojan Horse.
Jimmy John Wylde
Didn't like what he was seeing with Lance T. Body language was all wrong. He didn't want to walk off and leave his guitar case. He called over a waitress, Renee, and said, "Hon, stand right here for a second and watch that case."
Renee looked at it, looked at him, looked at Lance, and said, "For a minute, okay, Jimmy? Should I...."
"It's cool," Jimmy said.
He eased out of the chair, whispered in his throat mike, "Moving to back Lance" and heard two clucks from Deon, three from Guz, and a "Yes," from Kai, who was already behind the four big Hmong shooters with two of his biggest bouncers. They knew to stay out of the way if something went down. They'd been there before.
The boss of the Hmong crew knew who Jimmy was; he shifted back, made sure his hands were in sight.
Jimmy nodded. Keep it friendly. "Everything okay, Lance?"
"We're cool, Jimmy. Just some club business, doesn't involve you or Lizzy, okay?" Lance said.
"Everything okay, bro?" Jimmy said to the lead Hmong man.
"Yeah," he said. "We're cool. No problems with you, man."
"Let me know you need anything, Lance," Jimmy said, easing back, nodding, the picture of friendliness, the significance of his untucked shirt not lost any of the four Hmong shooters. "Clear," he whispered, his throat mike picking it up.
Two clucks, then three.
Back on station, nodding thanks to the waitress, who hurried off, stress on her face.
She wasn't the only one.
Guz
"How long have you worked here?" Guz asked Amelia, the latest in the long line of dancers trying to cajole him into a private.
"Almost a year. How come you don't want a dance?" she said.
"I'm engaged. Do you make really good money?"
"Engaged? What she doesn't know won't hurt her."
"I don't think that way. So. How much do you make?"
She was disappointed. "Not much from guys who want to talk and not pay me."
"Guys pay you to talk to them?"
" Most guys pay me to dance for them."
"Wow. Well, thanks anyway."
She flounced off, and he touched his plain glasses. Clark Kent strikes again.
Scanned again, his ear bud in place, Deon over-watching, the Hmong hitters already up stairs, Jimmy back in place, and his disconcertingly beautiful girlfriend was into a really nasty one, Nine Inch Nails at their dark best:
....you like me desecrate you...you like me complicate you...
Dang. This whole strip club thing was a trip. Serious money making going on. Bad guys being players, sad guys buying fantasy, glad guys buying drinks, and the mad guys...well, being ambulatory targets.
Guz laughed. Sure is fun being a freelancer. Beats the hell out of swimming to work.
Though sometimes he missed those days.
He kept up his scan and didn't let himself be distracted by Lizzy going through a routine that was part Olympic pole-dance, part ballet, part ancient homage to some kind of Goddess that reduced men to throbbing incoherence, red hair like a wing swinging back and forth, her blue eyes piercing the men closest to the stage, the ones who held up money as an offering to her and what she represented, an untouchable fantasy, the only one in this club, surrounded by dangerous men with guns to watch over her, and he wondered if she knew just how far Jimmy would go to protect her.
That's a good friend to have. And the worst possible enemy.
Jimmy, that is. He had a long memory and a deep little black book, and the skill set to make things happen.
...help me...help me get away from myself...I want to fuck you like an animal...
Jeez. Where did these guys get these lyrics? Sure was driving the crowd wild.
Looks like she was going to
take a break pretty soon --
Tony Po
Didn't want to go, but the big boy in charge wasn't having it.
"We got our orders," he said. "You're going. Nice quiet house in the suburbs. No more free pussy and brandy for you."
"Not funny," Tony said. "You watch your mouth."
The cocky Hmong In Charge drew it back a little, shrugged. "We're going."
Tony's bodyguard took the handles of the chair and started down the hallway to the small elevator. "Only two of you in here. No more room."
"We'll take the stairs," the relief leader said. "Meet you at the bottom."
"Ah, let's get the fuck out of here," Tony said. "Go!"
They squeezed into the elevator, Tony in his chair, his bodyguard, the smallest of the armed escorts. Tony's bodyguard pushed the button and the elevator began it's short descent.
"Some day you'll be old," Tony grumbled. "You'll know what it's like."
"At least you're alive," the new guy said.
"Yeah," Tony said. "For now."
The elevator door opened. There was a white guy, older, pudgy, late 40s or 50s with a ratty pony-tail standing there, horn rimmed glasses, ragged goatee.
"Whoa! Sorry, dude, I thought this was the restroom? Do you know where the restroom is?" the white guy said.
"Get the fuck out of the way," Tony's bodyguard said.
"Whoa, yeah..." the white guy turned away as the three of them came out. Then he turned, "Dude....?"
"Go..."
Tony's bodyguard's mouth was shut by a silenced bullet from the pistol that appeared in the white man's hand as though by magic from beneath his flannel shirt.
Pfffffttt was all Tony heard.
He barely raised his hands before the man tracked in on the new bodyguard, who took a round neatly between the eyes and dropped where he was. The white guy stepped in close and said softly, "Mr. Po, if you want to live, I'd strongly suggest you just shut the fuck up and play along while I wheel you out of here. If you give me any reason whatsoever, I will end you just like I ended these two. Got it? Now...where is the drive?"
Too Wylde Page 16
