Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set

by Hildreth, Scott

I blinked.

  The angel was Pee Bee.

  He shouldered his rifle, and then parted his quivering lips. “What…what’s shakin’…mother…fucker?”

  Upon hearing those words, I exhaled a light laugh and smiled for the first time in two days.

  God had a sense of humor.

  I felt myself being lifted from the chair. I looked around. Another soldier took off his helmet.

  “Where’s your pants, Brother?” he coughed.

  Crip?

  “Building’s clear!” I heard someone shout. “Three tangos, KIA.”

  The ringing in my ears had lessened, and was now down to a low roar. The door at the end of the building was getting closer, and closer. It felt as if I was being carried toward it.

  Confused, my eyes darted around the building. Then, I looked to my right, at the man carrying me. A tear rolled down his cheek.

  “Am I…” I blinked a few times, and then stared. “Is it you, Peeb?”

  “It’s me, Brother,” he said.

  “Am I…Am I…alive?”

  “You’re one tough motherfucker,” he said. “You look like fuckin’ hell, but, yeah. You’re alive.”

  I looked to the left, and then the right. A van with two soldiers standing beside it was waiting in front of us.

  I realized I was, in fact, alive. My brothers had saved me. A feeling of euphoria filled me, and along with it came a pulse of energy. As the two soldiers took me from Pee Bee’s arms and lowered me onto a gurney, I raised my hand.

  “Where’s…where’s Alexandra? Is she…” I pressed my tongue to the roof of my swollen mouth. “Is she okay?”

  He nodded. “She’s with Tegan.”

  “Call…her,” I said. “And hand me the phone.”

  Chapter One Hundred Four

  Lex

  Tegan bent down and picked up the phone. She wiped her tears with her arm, and then met my gaze.

  It was bad news. I was sure of it.

  I began to sob.

  She shook her head and extended her arm. Through her tears, she forced a smile. “It’s…it’s for you.”

  I reached for the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Alexandra?”

  Hearing his voice caused all my muscles to tense. My heart rose into my throat. “Adam?”

  “They didn’t kill me,” he said. “But they made me realize something.”

  Warmth shot through me. I bit against my lower lip to keep it from shaking. “What…what’s that?”

  He sighed. “I need you.”

  “I need you, too,” I blubbered through my tears.

  Chapter One Hundred Five

  Cholo

  I’d never been confined to a hospital bed before, but then again, my list of nevers had diminished significantly in the last few days.

  While I prepared to tell another part of my tale, detective Watson came through the door.

  I looked at Crip. He nodded his head once and patted me on the shoulder.

  “Thought they had a limit on visitors in these places,” Watson said.

  “They do,” Crip said snidely. “And with you, we’re over the limit. Make your visit quick, cop.”

  “Take it easy, Navarro,” the detective said, his tone flat. “I come in peace.”

  Watson glanced around, grabbed the chair from the corner of the room, and sat down. After opening his notepad, he looked up.

  “As you might suspect, I’ve got to take a statement. I read your admission form, and I’ve seen the doctor’s reports. I need a sworn statement from you.”

  “I’m on a morphine drip,” I said. “But I think I’m ready.”

  He lifted his pen to his mouth and tapped it against his lip. “Is your name Adam Wesley Downey?”

  “It is.”

  “Do you reside at 42031 N. 14th Ave., in Oceanside, California.”

  “I do.”

  “Can you describe to the best of your ability, in detail, the events that transpired which led to your being hospitalized?”

  “I can do my best.”

  He stopped tapping the pen. “Begin.”

  “I was in bed asleep, and something woke me up. By the time I got my eyes adjusted, some fucker was asking me where his money was. I had no idea what he was talking about, and tried to explain myself, but he pistol-whipped me and took me anyway.”

  “Took you?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Kidnapped me. Abducted me. Whatever you want to call it.”

  “Continue.”

  “They took me to a building, duct-taped me to a table, then burned me, pulled my teeth with pliers, and then smashed my toes with a fucking hammer.”

  “Jesus.” He winced. “Over the course of how much time?”

  I looked at Alexandra.

  “Roughly forty-eight hours,” she said.

  He let out a long sigh. “Continue.”

  “Well, he reached a point that he realized I didn’t have his money, and he told the other two to shoot me, and then--”

  “He being whom? He realized you didn’t have his money. Who is he?”

  “Don’t know what his name was, but I called him ‘Tattoo.’ You know, in my mind.”

  “Why did you call him that?”

  “He had a number 18 tattooed on his neck.”

  “Front or back?” he asked.

  “Huh?”

  “On the front or back of his neck?”

  “Front.”

  “Continue.”

  “So. Let’s see. He told them to kill me, and I closed my eyes. Then, I heard some sounds. Like, pop, pop, pop. I opened my eyes, and that’s when I saw him.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Tattoo?”

  “No, a different him. A Hispanic male I didn’t recognize. Someone new. He had a rifle in each hand, and he was shooting at my captors. In the shootout, Tattoo pulled a pistol and shot the guy who I didn’t recognize in his leg. He fell to the floor, fired one last shot, and killed Tattoo. As Tattoo fell, the pistol discharged, shooting the guy in the other leg.”

  “The man you didn’t recognize had two weapons?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “One in each hand?”

  “Best that I could tell, yes.”

  He coughed a laugh. “Sounds like a Quentin Tarantino movie.”

  I cocked my head to the side and smiled. “Seemed like one.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, I realized the gun was out of his grasp, and somehow I got up. After kicking the weapons into a pile, I stumbled outside the building, and out into the street.”

  Alexandra squeezed my hand.

  Shit.

  “No, wait,” I said. “After I kicked the weapons into a pile, I called 911 and reported the crime. Then, I stumbled out into the street. Then everything went black.”

  “So, during your time in captivity, you had a phone?”

  “No. I used the phone on the table beside Tattoo.”

  He nodded. “When the police arrived, you were gone. How were you transported here?”

  “I came out of my unconscious state when a guy was loading me in the backseat of a car.”

  “Another Hispanic male?”

  “Nope,” I said. “White dude. Executive type. Dressed in a suit and driving a BMW sedan. He brought me here. In fact, he signed the admission form.”

  He flipped through his pad, eventually stopped on a page, and then studied it for a moment.

  “Jay Parsons?” he asked.

  “Sounds right.”

  He chuckled. “Jay Parsons, as in the Jay Parsons?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Who’s the Jay Parsons?”

  “Attorney to the movie stars,” he said. “Millionaire extraordinaire, Jay Parsons. The one who represented that pro basketball player who was accused of killing his maid. Remember? His wife was screwing the other basketball player and tried to frame him? The Jay Parsons that sued LAPD for wrongful death when they choked that kid to death by accident and won a $50,000,00
0 settlement? The same Jay Parsons who obliterates everyone who opposes him in court. That Jay Parsons.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I didn’t make the connection.”

  “Sounds like a hell of a story.” He sighed and closed his notepad. “Well, I’m glad you made it out alive.”

  “Makes two of us, detective.”

  “On another note. We found one Hispanic male in a building by the pier, and he’d been shot in each leg. The pistol used in the shooting was confirmed to be the weapon we found beside Jose Sanchez-Guiverra, who, in case you are unaware, is...” He paused and raised his index finger. “No, was, the local leader for Calle 18. He’s the one you called ‘Tattoo’. And, for what it’s worth, we found his fingerprints were on the frame of the pistol, and we found a partial on the trigger.”

  I raised my eyebrows in false interest.

  “Two other deceased Hispanic males were found on the scene,” he said. “They were later identified as being Sanchez-Guiverra’s henchmen. The firearms used in the crime were stolen from a navy SEAL armory years ago, and were listed as stolen weapons in the National Database.”

  “I’ll be damned,” I said.

  “The only living Hispanic male suspect, however, swears that he didn’t do it. The man who was shot in each leg by Sanchez-Guiverra.”

  “They all say that, don’t they?” I asked. “That they’re innocent?”

  “Crazy bastard says the US Marines did it, and that he was set up.” He looked right at Crip and grinned a sly grin. “Surprised he didn’t say it was the Navy SEALs.”

  “Never know with those gangbangers,” I said.

  He stood up. “Can’t trust ‘em, if you ask me.”

  He glanced at each of us, nodding his head as he made eye contact. “Navarro, Peanut Butter, Miss Hart, Downey. Have a nice life. My Calle 18 case is closed, and I’m on to bigger and better things.”

  He walked to the door, opened it, and then hesitated. “Funny thing, you know…”

  “What’s that, detective?”

  “The money they were looking for,” he said, still facing away from me. “We didn’t find it on the scene. Or, anywhere, for that matter.”

  We hadn’t either, but we were far from done looking.

  “Can’t trust those gangbangers, detective. Hell, they probably never had any.”

  Without turning around, he responded, “You’re probably right.”

  He held the door open, stepped into the hallway, and then turned to face the room.

  “Gentlemen, keep up the good work,” he said.

  And then, he walked away.

  Chapter One Hundred Six

  Lex

  Adam’s absence wasn’t lengthy, but the effect our separation had on me was profound. During his abduction, I learned that he was much more than a person of interest to me. He was the man I was falling in love with.

  I drove him home from the hospital, and as soon as the car came to a stop in the driveway, he hobbled toward the garage. As I gathered all his paperwork, prescriptions, and get well soon cards, he opened the door and got on his motorcycle.

  I set everything aside, walked to the garage, and pressed my hands to my hips. “I really don’t think--”

  “Look at that.” He nodded toward his foot. “It’s ugly, but it works.”

  His foot, which was covered in a purple cast, rested on the right footrest of his motorcycle. It looked ridiculous, and I was sure he couldn’t ride with the obnoxious thing dangling off the side of his motorcycle.

  I chuckled. “You can’t ride with that thing.”

  “It’s my right foot. All I have to do is stomp the brake with it. If it was my left, I’d be fucked.” He looked at it, and then gave a prideful nod. “Shit, this’ll work just fine.”

  His foot was the least of his worries. All things considered, it was the most presentable element of proof of his torture.

  The left side of his head had a stitched gash that was four inches long, and his forehead and face were covered in nasty looking lacerations. Both eyes were surrounded by multicolored bruises, and his arms were covered in sores from cigarette burns.

  The portions that were concealed were just as bad, if not worse. His thigh had two large spots on it that were going to need skin grafts after they healed, and he was missing five teeth. Dental implants weren’t scheduled for months, and although he didn’t have a difficult time talking, I was sure eating wasn’t pleasurable.

  Complaining, however, wasn’t something he played a part in.

  He was a biker through and through, there was no doubt about it.

  “What do you really need to ride for, anyway? I think you should rest for a week or so. You’ve been through a lot.”

  He lifted his cast over the seat, steadied himself on it, and looked at me like I was crazy. “I’ve got work to do. Can’t get a house bought without hard work.”

  The dream of buying a home fueled his devotion, and I liked that about him. “How long have you been saving?” I asked.

  “Seven years. I’m more than halfway there. If I get a few more homes in La Jolla, I could be there in two.” He limped past me and gazed across the street. “I’m ready to get the fuck out of this shitty neighborhood.”

  In the confusion, I’d forgotten about his commitments to work, and about La Jolla. I felt bad for not reminding him to call them and explain his situation.

  “Did you call him and tell him what happened?” I asked. “Your guy in La Jolla?”

  He glanced over his shoulder and nodded. “Yeah. I need to go see him and check on the job, though.”

  “You’re not going to slow down one bit, are you?”

  “The clock keeps ticking whether I’m out there, or in some hospital bed. Can’t let life pass me up.”

  “You’re just…” I shook my head and stepped to his side. “It’s easy to admire you.”

  “Admire me? Shit. I’m just a man trying to save a little money.”

  He took a long breath through his nose, held it for a few seconds, and then exhaled through his mouth.

  “Kind of hard to believe all those things actually happened,” he said, still staring across the street. “Then, I move wrong and my leg reminds me it was real.”

  He had cut the lower leg of one side of his jeans, allowing him to wear them, against the doctor’s orders, of course.

  “The doctor told you to wear shorts. And, I really wish you’d take the pain pills he gave you.”

  “I’ll take ‘em if I need ‘em,” he said.

  “Doesn’t it hurt?”

  He nodded. “Hurts like a motherfucker, but not enough for me to take a pill to try and fix it. I’m fine for now. And I ain’t wearing fucking shorts.”

  “Want to go inside for a while?”

  He tilted his head back and stared up at the sky. “Nope.”

  “Sit on the porch, maybe? Take some weight off your foot?”

  He grinned. “Nope.”

  I pushed my hands into my pockets and sighed. “What do you want to do?”

  He tugged against the bill of his hat, and then turned toward me. His eyes were glassy and wet.

  “I uhhm. When they were uhhm. They had. He had a hammer, and he was going to smash my toes with it. I can’t. I can’t even tell you what I was thinking. But he. I mean, at that time, I’d already been there two days. He uhhm.”

  He pursed his lips, gazed down at his feet, and made a motion with his hand as if he were swinging a hammer. The reenactment seemed to resurrect memories, and it appeared they were draining the life from him right then and there.

  So far, his discussions about the events had been laced with laughter. The stories he told in the hospital were loud, bold, and emotionless.

  Seeing him try to talk seriously about what happened was ripping my heart out.

  He looked up, but didn’t speak.

  I draped my arm over his shoulder and nestled against him.

  “After he smashed the second one. I kind of gave up. I was done, Ale
xandra. They uhhm. They broke my spirit.”

  His gaze fell to the driveway and he reached for his hat. He rubbed the brim between his thumb and forefinger, let out a sigh, and then continued.

  “I kind of made amends with God. Or something. We had a talk, anyway.”

  He looked at me with worried eyes. “I’m falling in love with you, and if that’s not what you want or what you’re looking for, I’ll understand. I really like you, and if you don’t want to give it a try, I’ll respect that. I won’t like it, but I’ll--”

  “I’m falling in love with you, too,” I said. “Now, please stop talking, and kiss me.”

  Chapter One Hundred Seven

  Cholo

  As I limped up the steps, the front door opened, and a man stepped onto the massive porch. He was wearing a dark blue suit jacket and slacks.

  “Let me assist you, Mr. Downey,” he said.

  “It’ll take me a minute, but I’ll get there,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I eventually reached the top of the steps and then met his gaze. “We haven’t met. I’m Adam.”

  He nodded. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Downey. I’ve heard good things about you. I’m Mr. Bale’s confidant and assistant, Downes.”

  “Downes?”

  He gave a nod. “That is correct, Sir.”

  “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” he said. “Follow me, Sir? Mr. Bale will be down in a moment.”

  “Sure.”

  I followed him into the home, and along the corridor toward the rear of the house. His size and swagger led me to believe he was the security guard Mr. Bale had mentioned inheriting along with the home.

  He stopped just short of a large room that was decorated with rich leather and velour furniture. The back wall was solid glass, and gave an unobstructed view of the ocean. I walked toward the glass and stared out at the waves as they came toward the shore.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “It sure is.”

  “What can I get you to drink?” he asked.

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “I’ll bring you a water. Have a seat, Mr. Downey.”

  I sat down in a chair that faced the windows. As I admired the size and structure of the room, Mr. Bale walked in.