"Sounds much more sensible," Alexa said, sending Shane a withering look.
Tony pulled a gun out of his hip holster and checked the cylinder, snapped it closed, and reholstered it. The gun was pure Tony. A no-nonsense.38-caliber Smith amp; Wesson round wheel with a blue-steel finish. Tony had wrapped hundreds of rubber bands around the handle to make the grip larger and softer. The only place Shane had ever seen that modification was in Chicago. A lot of Chicago cops rubber-banded their grips. Tony, as usual, was an unorthodox mixture of good ideas and proven methodologies.
They made a left on Pinnacle, then went for about six miles before Alexa instructed Tony to turn right on Scottsdale Road, another mile and a half to Happy Valley. They made a right and started following the numbers.
Scottsdale was not geographically located in one place. It was spread out in population clusters. Land was not a pricey commodity in the desert, so people built low-level buildings in places that suited them. Only a few buildings at intersections and around business centers were three stories or taller.
The three LAPD interlopers continued down Happy Valley Road, eventually passing through a residential area and entering an open stretch of vegetative desert with no buildings. It was magnificent, arid country with Joshua trees dotting the landscape. Palms and bougainvillea bordered the roadside. Beyond, the desert seemed to stretch endlessly.
White Cow Dairy turned out to be a few hundred acres near some low rock outcroppings. A line of trees and a white split-rail fence that ran along the road bordered the dairy. There were at least two hundred Holsteins grazing in the surrounding fields. A huge WHITE COW DAIRY arch spanned the entrance to the main center drive. Barns and milking sheds were located at the end of this long road. A white Colonial house with a covered porch and slate roof stood off to one side.
Tony drove by at the posted thirty-mile-an-hour speed limit. Alexa pulled a digital camera out of her purse and began taking pictures.
There were no cars, no trucks, and no people. Shane was worried they'd made a mistake because the farm appeared to be completely deserted.
Chapter 47
HANGIN' WITH HOLSTEINS
"We meet back here in ten minutes," Tony ordered.
They were standing next to the rented Lincoln, parked off the road several hundred yards from the main gate. They had popped the hood up, to make the car look abandoned.
"Shane, you take the east end of the place. Go in through the field, try and get close enough to the buildings to see if anybody's in there. I'll do the same from the west." He turned to Alexa. "Lieutenant, find a position out front. If anybody comes down the driveway, you hold the front door and contact us on the pager. Nine-one-one means trouble. Here's my number." He handed it to Alexa.
Shane didn't have his pager, but he did have his new satellite phone with the bug from ESD. He turned it on and set it to vibrate, then handed Alexa the number, which he had written on the back of one of his business cards.
"Okay, ten minutes," Tony repeated. "Then we're back here with whatever we find out."
They all took off. Shane went with Alexa, up the road alongside the line of cypress trees and the white split-rail fence. They reached a group of low rocks across from the front gate and ducked behind them.
"This looks like a good spot," Shane said as Alexa settled down and took a chrome-plated.38 Smith amp; Wesson out of her purse and laid it on the rock in front of her.
"Listen, Shane, just so we've got this straight. No John Wayne bullshit, okay?"
"The Duke's dead. Hit the slab almost twenty-five years ago," he said, remembering Nicky's line.
"Shane…"
"Okay, okay. I'm just gonna go hang out with a buncha Holsteins. John Wayne would've never hid under a cow." He kissed the end of her nose, and before she could pursue it, moved out.
"Don't start a stampede!" he heard her whisper as he sprinted past the front of the dairy, ducking under the split-rail fence into the field. He made a dash across the pasture, then hunkered down with the closest herd of grazing milk cows. It wasn't quite a herd there were only three black and white Holsteins more like a small gathering. They probably didn't wash these dairy cows, because Shane was immediately engulfed in their heavy, pungent musk. He knelt down between two of the animals and peered underneath at the barn and milking sheds, which were now only about two hundred yards away.
From here the dairy still looked deserted.
Shane watched the front of the farmhouse from beneath the swollen udder of Flossy or Bessie or whatever, but regardless, she didn't like him down there and kept moving and pivoting away to keep him out from under her. Shane had to duck-walk the Dance of the Toreadors to keep from being trampled.
After being stepped on once or twice, he finally managed to get a hand on the cow's neck and hold her still. She mooed, stamped her feet, then urinated. A yellow stream splashed on the ground, splattering him. "I guess you're trying to tell me something," he grumbled, then got out from under her, moving on to another cow.
When Shane looked over at the farm from this new angle, he could see the front end of an eighteen-wheeler parked behind the hay barn. The flatbed tractor wasn't attached, just a cab with some writing on the door.
He tried to make out what it said, but it was too far away, so he attempted to push his new cow in the general direction of the milking sheds to get closer. But she had also tired of him. Her udder was red. Shane was no farmer, but it looked like she'd already been milked once today and didn't want to give it up again. She mooed loudly and looked like she was about to head-butt him.
Suddenly, she turned her head and gave Shane the angriest look he could ever remember seeing on either man or beast.
"Okay, okay have it your way. I'm leaving," he whispered. Then he left her, sprinting across some open ground to the next cluster of grazing Holsteins.
He was now about fifty yards away from the milking sheds and hay barns. He squatted again, looking underneath a new cow.
From this distance he could read the writing on the side door of the truck cab: Sinaloa Farms.
Sinaloa was where Delfina said Ruiz's hay farm was in Mexico. The new cow Shane was hiding under slowly turned her head and looked down at him with sleepy, slutty eyes.
"I'm married," Shane whispered as he began to herd her gently toward the barn. She moved slowly at first, but then started to get into it… or maybe she was just trying to get away from him. At any rate, the cow kept picking up speed, until she was almost cantering toward the barns. Shane was running beside her, awkwardly stumbling in weeds and rocks, trying to stay upright, when he abruptly lost his footing and fell, facedown, in the dirt. The cow moved on for a few paces, then stopped, and looked back at him. She stretched her lips in what Shane was almost certain was a grin.
He stayed low, surveying the terrain, wondering what to do next. Then in the distance he heard two flat pops. Gunfire.
It was coming from the west end of the property.
He heard two more flat, popping sounds. Then everything went quiet. Shane clawed for his phone, pulled it off his belt, and dialed Alexa. She answered on the first ring. "You hear that?"
"Yeah."
"Sounds like Tony. It came from his direction." "It's blown," Alexa said. "Pull back."
"You're breaking up…"
"Goddammit, Shane! Don't pull this shit on me. Save it for Tony."
"Didn't get all of that. Only heard 'Save Tony,' so I'm moving up. Get in touch with Scottsdale P. D. We need backup."
"Shane, cut the bullshit. I know you can hear me. Pull back! That's a direct order!"
"Hello… Hello?" Shane said, then closed the phone.
He could see a plume of dust rolling down the road on the west side of the property, heading toward the barns. Seconds later he heard the high whine of an engine wound tight, then, finally, he could make out a tan Land Rover racing ahead of the billowing cloud of dirt. He wasn't sure if Tony was in that vehicle, but it finally skidded to a stop in front of the hay
barn, throwing dust that began swirling and drifting with the breeze.
Shane inched closer on his stomach. His phone was vibrating on his hip-Alexa trying to get back to him. He ignored it and kept going.
When he was about twenty-five yards away, he could see two black men open the back door of the Land Rover and yank out Tony Filosiani. He was bleeding badly from two wounds, one in the shoulder area, another near the stomach. The Day-Glo Dago was doubled over, unable to walk. His toes cut a line in the dust as two African-American gangbangers with Crip blue headbands pulled him across the front yard of the dairy and into the barn.
Suddenly something wet and cold touched Shane's leg. He exploded upright onto his feet, his heart pounding. He turned and saw that the friendly cow with the bedroom eyes had just nuzzled his ankle.
Shane took a deep breath, kneeled down again, and got his jackhammering heart under control. He decided to make a run for it across open ground, try to reach cover on the near side of the barn. He had to admit, the plan was a little John Wayne, but his position was out in the open, and he sure as hell didn't like the looks of Tony's wounds. Despite the chief's in-your-face M. O., he was becoming very fond of the Day-Glo Dago. Or maybe he was just becoming another in a long line of department suck-ups. He shook off the thought, gathered his knees under him, said a quick prayer, then took off.
Sprinting on the sandy dirt wearing loafers reminded Shane of the slow-motion running he often did when he was being chased by overwhelming evil in his nightmares. This twenty-five-yard adrenaline dash was so dismal he could have timed it with a sundial. He finally reached the side of the barn and flattened himself against the weathered wood. Somehow, miraculously, his sluggish sprint had gone unobserved. He tried to catch his breath as he resurveyed the dairy.
Shane could now see half a dozen Crip and Blood work cars parked behind the Colonial-style house, out of view of the main road. His cell vibrated again on his hip; he cursed Alexa's stubbornness, but this time he answered.
He whispered angrily, "They got Tony. He's been wounded."
"I called for backup. Now get out of there," she said resolutely. "That's an order."
"I'm trying to get him out of there," he said. "Call you when it's done." As he hung up, he could hear her angry protest. Shane crept slowly around the barn. When he reached the corner, he stopped. From this angle he could see several more cars parked behind the milking sheds. Mercedes and BMWs, probably motherships. Dennis Valentine's blue Rolls-Royce was a ways off, under a tree. Shanepulled the Beretta off his ankle and chambered it. From the look of all the rolling stock hidden from the road, Shane figured there were at least twenty gangbangers out here.
He edged around the corner of the barn, then started to make his way toward a standard-sized door cut in the center of the side wall. As he got closer, Shane dropped to his stomach. With the barrel of his gun, he gently touched the door. It was unlatched, so he pushed it open a crack wider and looked inside. Through the slit, he could see only half the barn, but that area was deserted. He listened for voices; nothing but silence, so he carefully pushed the door wider, craning his neck in for a better look.
He had just seen five men, including Tony, enter this barn seconds ago, but now it was absolutely empty.
Shane held his breath, then wiggled the rest of the way through the opening, staying on his stomach with the Beretta out in front of him until he could see the entire room. The hay trailer had been pulled inside the barn and was parked next to the east wall. From his prone position on the floor, he could see under the still-loaded trailer. Nobody was there, but several bales of hay had been removed from the center of the load. Shane assumed that was where the shipment of White Dragon had been stashed. Suddenly he heard voices. They were distant, sounding as if they were echoing through a tunnel. Then silence. Shane slowly got to his feet and began to move deeper into the barn. He stopped, stood very still, and listened. The voices started again. Shane cautiously followed the direction of the sound and soon found a metal door. It was on the far end of the barn, partially hidden behind a riding blanket. The door had been left slightly ajar, so the voices were leaking through the opening. He reached out and slowly pulled the door wider. It creaked loudly on rusted hinges. Shane froze, then tried again, pulling it an anxious inch at a time. Once he had a few feet clearance, he quickly swung his gun through the opening, pivoted, and followed it in.
He was looking down a dimly lit, short flight of stairs that led to a narrow concrete passageway. Shane kicked off his loafers. In his stocking feet, he crept down the steps until he got to the floor of the tunnel. He was standing in a long, curving concrete corridor. There were a few dim lights hanging from exposed fixtures. Moisture glistened from the walls. He could make out muffled laughter. Then he heard Tony cry out in pain.
Shane moved slowly along the hallway, putting one foot carefully before the other, his gun extended firmly in both hands. He was hugging the far wall to get the longest visual reach down the curving tunnel. He crept forward until, finally, he saw a bright light reflecting off the glistening walls ahead. As he drew closer, he saw another set of stairs leading to a lit area above.
Suddenly, more talk… Shane couldn't make out all that was being said because it was distorted by echo. Tony's voice sounded weak, but he thought he heard the chief say, "Fuck you, asshole."
Shane was now at the foot of the concrete steps. Desperately trying not to make any noise, he began to creep silently up the stairs in his socks, his Beretta out in front of him.
Just as he was almost at the top, a gunshot thundered through the echoing silence, followed immediately by a screaming ricochet. A slug chipped the wall beside his head, stinging his cheek with flying concrete before it whined away, thunking into a riser at the top of the stairs. Shane dropped to one knee and spun around, squinting back into the dark passageway. He saw two vague shapes wearing blue headbands. Huge chrome Colts glinted in their outstretched hands. Both had stopped and had him in their sights. Shane was raising his Beretta, ready to fire, but he was already too late.
Chapter 48
WAR IN THE DESERT
Two more shots thundered in the tunnel. Instantly, Shane plastered himself against the cold, curved wall, as both Crip gangsters flew forward, landing facedown on the concrete floor. Miraculously, Shane wasn't bleeding.
A second later, Shane heard several weapons trombone behind him. A shotgun racked. Alexa was moving up the corridor, the smoking Smith in her right hand. Suddenly Shane felt cold steel on the back of his head, then somebody behind him yanked the Beretta out of his grip.
"Drop the piece!" Dennis Valentine shouted at Alexa.
She froze, caught out in the open with her gun up. Shane was between his wife and Dennis, who was backed by armed g'sters. It was why she hadn't fired again. She was afraid she'd hit him. Alexa held her breath, powerless in the narrow corridor, her eyes wide, her.38 glinting impotently.
Shane felt an icy fear for his beautiful wife.
"Drop it!" Valentine demanded.
"Hey, dirtbag, no LAPD officer ever gives up a weapon." Alexa's voice was a low, adrenalized hiss.
"I've got no more use for your guy here," Dennis said. "Put it down or I'm gonna paint this place red with him."
She looked at Valentine, trying to gauge the threat. "I don't think so," she said. "Not your style."
"I'm not the one's gonna do it." He motioned to a tall, muscular African American. "He is." One of the Crips stepped forward. From the corner of his eye Shane caught a glimpse of Russell Hayes, the man Amac credited with arranging Stone's murder. Without hesitation, Hardcore Hayes put his cut-down.12-gauge to Shane's head. Fear and indecision flickered in Alexa's eyes. There was no doubt in anybody's mind that Hardcore would pull the trigger.
"Okay," Alexa said, lowering her gun.
The rest was just housekeeping.
Two more Crips ran into the corridor, grabbed Alexa, and threw her on the floor. Dennis stepped back and another two gangbangers too
k Shane down in exactly the same fashion. Once subdued, they were both pulled up the stairs into a windowless neon-lit room about twenty feet long and ten feet wide. Across the end of the chamber were five tables with hammered metal tops. They looked as if they had perhaps once been milking shed tables, but now they were piled high with Baggies of powder, each one displaying White Dragon logos stenciled on the sides.
There were a dozen Crip and Blood bangers in the room with Dennis Valentine, all packing street sweepers or cut-down shotguns.
Farrell Champion and General Ruiz were not there.
Shane was shoved forward and saw Tony slumped in the corner, his shirt drenched in blood. His normally round, cherubic face had gone pale and damp. He looked like he was going into shock. Two Crip gunmen were standing over him, but the chief wasn't going to be causing any trouble. He was hanging by a thread, bleeding out.
"You gotta get him medical attention," Alexa said anxiously. She was being held by a muscular banger whom Shane remembered from gang briefings: a dangerous Crip murderer known as Insane Wayne.
"You don't get it. All a you motherfuckas 'bout t' get taken off d'count," Hardcore Hayes said in a deep Barry White-type voice.
Then, as if to prove the point, Tony started coughing-deep, rattling, dangerous sounds that scared Shane more than Hardcore's threats.
"It's not gonna go down that easy, Hayes," Alexa said softly.
"Git your ass down offs your shoulder, bitch," Hardcore growled. "This is over."
"I got troops rolling," Alexa said. "In a few minutes, this place is gonna look like a federal law enforcement convention."
"Shut up, Alexa," Shane growled. "Don't give these jerkoffs anything."
She looked over at him and glowered. It was bad acting-Dragnet theater-but it seemed to work. Dennis and Hardcore looked worried, like they suddenly didn't know how to play it.
Hollywood Tough ss-3 Page 30
