Hollywood Tough (2002)

by Stephen - Scully 03 Cannell

  Shane and Alexa were forced out of the milking shed into a covered distribution center where several twelve-wheel, shiny, aluminum refrigerated tanker trucks were parked. They all had White Cow logos on the cab doors.

  Shane was dragged to the nearest truck.

  “Up,” Dennis ordered. “Climb.” He pushed Shane to the metal ladder that led to the top of the large aluminum tank.

  “Can’t … I’m lactose intolerant. Allergic to dairy,” Shane said. Dennis put his gun to the back of Shane’s head and cocked it.

  “Funny … case you haven’t figured this out, you’re already dead, asshole. I gave you and your lady a chance to get rich. You coulda had a piece of a sixty-billion-dollar business, but instead you turn into a fucking Boy Scout. You made your choice. I can waste you right now, but then I gotta drag your leakin’ corpse up that ladder and ruin this great Armani suit. You wanna live another twenty minutes, you climb. Otherwise, you’re on the ark right now.”

  So Shane grabbed the metal ladder and started up to the top of the tanker. Two g’sters were waiting above. They were balanced on the shiny aluminum cask with their guns drawn. One of the Bloods was a fat, sweating O. G. in federated colors, a bright red running suit and matching head rag. Shane also recognized him from LAPD gang briefings—a Compton Blood named Li’l Hunchie.

  “Don’t make no jack move, mothafucka,” the O. G. said, training his auto-mag.

  Shane went to the raised hatch and climbed in, lowering himself down. He held on to the opening for a while, but Li’l Hunchie got impatient and started stomping on his fingers. Shane yelled out in pain, then let go, and dropped the last three feet into the shiny cylindrical interior. His scream echoed in the hollow container, and as it diminished, he saw Alexa being lowered. He grabbed her legs, helping her down.

  “Total cluster fuck,” she said once she was inside the cask.

  “Where’s our backup?” Shane demanded.

  “I called SPD. Claimed they knew where this place was, but the better question is, what happened to the feds? They got here two hours ahead of us. Where the fuck are they? Did they stop for doughnuts?”

  “You were supposed to hold the front,” Shane complained. “You’re sure not doing us much good in here, are ya!” There was anger in his voice, but he was frightened for her safety and that’s how it manifested itself.

  Tony was lowered down next. He was unconscious and his pants were soaked with blood. Shane could feel the coldness of the chief’s body as he grabbed him, then laid him on the floor of the tanker.

  The hatch was slammed shut and they were plunged into inky blackness.

  “Shit, we gotta get a tourniquet on him, but I can’t see a damned thing. You see where they hit him?” Alexa asked.

  “Looked like he took one in the shoulder, another in the stomach or abdomen,” Shane answered.

  He heard Alexa ripping fabric, tearing her jacket into strips. “Make me some compresses,” she said. “I’ll find the bullet holes with my fingers. Jam this cloth in. We gotta stop this bleeding.”

  Using his teeth, Shane started tearing his own jacket. He could feel her moving beside him, but could see absolutely nothing.

  “Fuck you doing?” Tony growled.

  “You’re awake! Thank God,” she answered.

  Tony started coughing. They were wet, racking coughs and Shane didn’t like the sound of them.

  Alexa was trying to find Tony’s wounds by touch, stuff them with torn pieces of her jacket,, then bind them up. Suddenly the truck lurched forward, throwing them all into a pile in the back.

  The inside of the milk tank was slick, and Shane, still in his socks, was sliding around like a dog on ice. He stripped them off to get better traction, then tried to stand. The truck was rocking badly as it left the loading dock, so he couldn’t keep his balance and was being thrown all over the place.

  “Where are you?” he said as he felt the truck turn onto the dairy’s main drive.

  “Down here, on the right,” Alexa answered.

  “When they open the hatch to take us out and kill us … that’s when we have to—”

  “I don’t think we’re getting out of here,” she said. “If it was me, I’d crash this thing and set fire to it. Burn the evidence.”

  “That’s not very fucking encouraging,” Shane said.

  Then Tony moaned and started coughing again.

  He had only been inside the tanker for a few minutes, but already Shane was beginning to sweat profusely inside the airless tanker. He concentrated on balancing against the side, trying not to fall. But as the truck accelerated up the drive, they were both off balance, trying not to land on Tony.

  Then the driver missed a shift and the engine screamed. The gears ground, then engaged, as they jerked hard and were picking up more speed. The truck turned sharply, then bounced and careened along, rocking badly. It felt as if the tanker had left the dairy’s main road and was bouncing out into the field, out of control, going too fast.

  “Something’s wrong!” Shane shouted as he was being thrown around in the dark.

  “Yeah?” Alexa quipped. “How can you tell?”

  Tony continued to moan.

  From outside, a machine gun started clattering. Bullets pierced the top of the tanker, puncturing pinholes of light through the metal just a few feet above their heads. Shane and Alexa threw themselves down on the floor, just as another burst of deadly automatic gunfire let loose. The milk truck swerved sharply, and Shane could feel it begin to tip. It teetered on its right-side wheels for a second, then began to turn over.

  The tanker rolled once … twice … then a third time. They were all flipping around inside the metal cylinder like laundry on tumble-dry. Finally the truck came to a shuddering stop, resting on its side.

  Shane crawled to the hatch and tried to push it open, but it wouldn’t budge. He turned, and lying on his back, tried to kick the airtight seal loose with his bare feet—his ankles ached with each lunging kick. The sound inside was like a steel drum, echoing with each blow. But the hatch wouldn’t budge.

  Suddenly they heard more gunfire outside, more bullet holes riddled the metal tank. Most of the rounds punched through one side and out the other, but a few ricocheted around dangerously inside. Soon Shane heard someone working on the hatch probably one of the Crip or Blood gangsters. He quickly got his feet under him, ready to fight for their lives.

  They held their breaths as the hatch was pulled back, and somebody’s face was looking in, backlit by the bright desert sunshine. Shane couldn’t see who it was, so he balled up his fist and let fly.

  “Dad, no!” Chooch yelled, just as Shane connected, knocking his son back through the hole.

  “Shit, Chooch!” Shane shouted, then scrambled out through the hatch into bright light. When his eyes finally adjusted, he saw his son lying on the sand at his feet. Chooch’s mouth was bleeding and one of his front teeth was missing. Simultaneously, machine guns started firing in the distance.

  “Sorry, Chooch. I’m sorry … Jesus, whatta you doing here?” Shane demanded.

  “Where’s Mom?” Chooch asked, holding his jaw.

  “Inside the tanker.” Shane stuck his head through the hatch. “Alexa, it’s Chooch. You both stay here with Tony.” He looked in the direction of the machine-gun fire and asked his son, “Who’s doing the shooting?”

  “Amac,” Chooch said. “He was out by the milking sheds trying to get the layout when he saw them put you guys in the truck. When it left the farm, he chased it, then shot out some tires and ran it off the driveway. The other Emes chased the escort cars away and dropped me off. Amac’s over there trying to take the rest of them out, but he’s only got five guys left. Here, take this.” Chooch handed his father Alexa’s backup gun the Double Eagle.

  “Stay here,” Shane ordered.

  “I’m not staying here.”

  “You packing?”

  Chooch pulled his coat back and showed Shane one of Alexa’s purse guns: the little Spanish
Astra.

  “Okay, but if you don’t do exactly what I say, I’m gonna clock you.”

  “Okay.”

  “For starters, lemme look at that tooth.” “Why?”

  “No arguments, remember?”

  Chooch frowned, but turned to show him, and as he did, Shane hit him with his best right hook … putting everything into the shot. As he connected, Shane felt the blow all the way up to his elbow. Chooch went down on one knee, then he toppled over and was soon breathing deeply, with his eyes closed.

  Shane took his son’s pulse, pulled back an eyelid, and looked at the pupil. “Alexa, get out here. I had to clock Chooch. He’s out. I think I gave him a concussion.”

  Alexa, with Tony’s blood all over her, scrambled out of the overturned tanker. Shane moved around and looked into the cab of the truck. Li’l Hunchie was behind the wheel, his red Nike running suit stained maroon with deep arterial ooze. Half a dozen bullet holes riddled the g’ster’s chest. Li’l Hunchie had his eyes open, but his lights were out.

  Shane jumped up onto the overturned cab, reached down inside, and pulled Hunchie’s MAC-10 off the floor. Then he turned and started sprinting in the direction of the gunfire. He was running pretty well across the sand in his bare feet—until he started picking up thorns. He hopped and brushed at the bottoms of his feet as he ran. Soon he came to a low rise. Shane threw himself down on the sand and edged up to the lip, peeking over.

  What he saw was pure Sam Peckinpah; no horses or wagons, but it was still right out of The Wild Bunch. Three low-riders were stalled on one side of the field next to the dairy, the gangsters now out of them, taking cover behind the fenders. Two of the abandoned Crip SUVs were tire-shot and riddled with bullet holes.

  The second tanker truck, which was loaded with the bags of White Dragon, was tipped over and on fire. It had rolled just like the one Shane, Alexa, and the chief had been in, but one of its gas tanks had ruptured, and flames were now licking at the shiny aluminum. Half a dozen Crips and Bloods with auto-mags were getting heat rash hiding behind the burning truck, rising up occasionally and triggering off long bursts of 9mm ordnance, firing at the pinned-down Emes.

  Shane was directly behind the tanker, in a great position to start picking the black gangsters off. He could also see that Amac and his men were in trouble. Badly outnumbered, they were hiding behind their disabled low-riders. Several Crips in blue headbands were crawling away from the burning truck, toward a wash. Blood shooters behind the truck rose up periodically, laying down a barrage of cover fire, their burping machine guns strafing the low-riders with 9mm rounds, keeping the Emes from moving and allowing the Crips to continue sneaking up the wash, unobserved. Within minutes, they would be able to set up a lethal crossfire.

  Shane decided his best and most critical shot was Hardcore Hayes, who was only twenty yards away, crouched down behind the burning truck. The problem was, Shane didn’t want to back-shoot him. These guys were killers, and sniper fire was part of the package in war, but just triggering Hayes off from behind seemed so cowardly and cold-blooded, Shane didn’t think he could do it. Nevertheless, he slowly pulled up Li’l Hunchie’s MAC-10 and put the retractable stock on his shoulder. “Meet your maker, asshole,” Shane whispered as he sighted down the barrel.

  But he couldn’t do it—couldn’t pull the trigger.

  He took a deep breath, hardened his resolve, then refocused on Hardcore Hayes.

  Shane squeezed off a short burst.

  And missed.

  Seconds later all hell broke loose. The Crips and Bloods who were hiding behind the truck with Hardcore turned and fired back at Shane, raking the top of the ridge where he was with hollow points. Sand flew in all directions. Shane dropped the MAC-10 by mistake and started zigzagging along the ridge, desperately trying to find cover. Slugs tugged at his sleeves and ripped holes in the dirt beneath his feet. He dove into a rain-wash and dug his head into the sand. After a second, the bullets stopped, so he picked his head up for a peek.

  The Emes had used the diversion to abandon their bullet-riddled low-riders and charge the tanker. Shane could see five Mexicans in blue headbands running across the open terrain. American Macado was leading the charge. Suddenly, the Crips and Bloods all turned away from Shane back toward the charging Emes, who were caught out in the open. Twenty ejector slides began clattering as the Crips opened up in force. Within seconds, half the Emes were down and bleeding in the sand.

  Shane couldn’t believe his eyes—the mindless violence—but now he had no choice. He started to pick off the Crips and Bloods with the Double Eagle, sighting carefully before each shot. He dropped Hardcore Hayes first, then got the Blood closest to Hayes. Now he had the advantage and was dividing their attention. The remaining Crip and Blood bangers turned away from Amac and started firing at Shane. Bullets thudded in the dirt inches from him. He took off running again, sprinting along in the open looking for better cover. But the ridge was quickly disappearing and soon he was going to end up with no cover at all. So he threw himself down, proned out in the sand, and the second he hit the ground, a flock of nines went overhead, stirring his short hair.

  He heard shouting. When Shane looked up, Amac had managed to get all the way to the overturned tanker. He seemed like the only Eme still on his feet. Amac stepped around the back of the truck and fired on the remaining two Bloods now cringing behind the burning tanker. As Amac crept farther around for a better shot, the flames reached their second gas tank, and suddenly it exploded. Both Blood g’sters and Amac were hurled away from the fiery truck by the explosion, airborne and screaming; they landed twenty feet away, bleeding in the sand.

  From the corner of his eye, Shane caught Dennis Valentine’s midnight blue Rolls-Royce speeding up the drive toward the front gate of the dairy. Shane stood and fired the Double Eagle, emptying the clip, but he was out of range. It seemed as if after all this, Champagne Dennis Valentine was going to escape.

  Shane’s tax dollars finally arrived. Three fully loaded gray sedans swung into view from the highway and blocked the front of the dairy, forcing Dennis to skid his Rolls to a stop to avoid hitting them.

  Shane didn’t wait to watch the arrest. He ran down the hill toward the burning tanker, checking the two Bloods on the way. They were both alive but unconscious. He grabbed their machine guns and heaved them as far as he could into the desert. Then he ran to Amac.

  American was on his back with a huge piece of shiny aluminum tanker shrapnel lodged in his stomach. It was at least two feet long and looked like it had knifed all the way through, pinning him to the hard desert ground like a bug on a board.

  As he leaned over, Shane could see the life in American’s eyes leaving, like light on a fast-dimming rheostat. “Amac …”

  American’s lips were caked with dirt and dried saliva. “You … you take care of him?” he croaked softly.

  “Of Chooch …”

  Amac nodded, then coughed. “And Delfina … she has nobody now.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “She could be the one, Scully. She could live the dream.”

  Shane nodded and took his hand.

  “See, I was right,” Amac whispered. “No freedom yet. Maybe next time …” He closed his eyes.

  Shane knelt in the sand beside him as the sound of incoming sirens filled the desert. He leaned down and listened for a heartbeat, but there was none. Shane held Amac’s lifeless hand, watching the blood pour out of him, staining the desert sand. Oddly, the crimson fanned out symmetrically underneath him, like angel’s wings. A brown angel.

  But this guy was a drug lord. He killed people, Shane thought.

  Then Amac’s voice echoed in his memory: Asi es, asi sera … This is how it is. How it’s going to be.

  Chapter 49.

  RIO RAVO

  In the dream, Amac was standing on the far bank of a raging river, smiling. He looked much younger, much happier—or maybe it was just pure relief. Shane couldn’t tell.

  “This is som
e river, gabacho,” Amac shouted as the water screamed in their ears. “They call it Rio Bravo, the Great Divide, no? Although it runs between Mexico and the United States, it really runs between you and me. We had to shout across this river, ese, but somehow we could always hear each other. Perhaps someday this river will dry up and there will be no more Great Divide.”

  Shane called across the river. “You died saving Chooch and me, Alexa and Tony. I can never pay you back.”

  “Que caballo, ese. You see these things through Anglo eyes. But I am where I belong. There is honor in death .. . honor more precious than mortality. Do you know the Tarahumara Indians?”

  Shane had never heard of them, so he shook his head.

  “Their home was in the mountain ranges of Chihuahua. They were one of the tribes that never succumbed to the Spanish. They lived in poverty, but they were proud people, Scully. Proud and happy because they had honor, and never lost their heritage. I am one of those Indians. It is not so hard to die when you believe in what you die for. So remember what I said about Delfina. Make sure she does not forget about her people. Let her live the dream, ese.”

  When Shane woke up he was in Phoenix Memorial Hospital on a couch in the waiting room. As he wiped the sleep from his eyes, he felt tears.

  He looked over and saw Alexa and Chooch sleeping on couches nearby. Then he remembered: A few hours ago they had brought Tony to the hospital by ambulance, along with the surviving bangers.

  In the car, Chooch had explained to Alexa that a black-skinned Eme, a prieto named Midnight, had been left behind in L. A. to guard Delfina. Chooch had come to Delfina’s hospital room and had managed to get him to confide that Amac was going to the White Cow Dairy in Scottsdale. Chooch had flown there on Delta and hooked up with the Emes.

  When they arrived at the E. R., Tony, hovering near death, was sent to surgery.

  Time would tell.

  The Panamanian general never showed up. But Dennis Valentine was now in custody, demanding his lawyers.

  Farrell Champion had been found in the trunk of one of Amac’s low-riders, bound and gagged. Once they got the tape off his mouth, he made a phone call, and wide-shouldered Carl from WITSEC showed up an hour later. He still claimed to know nothing about anything, but whisked Farrell off anyway, placing the producer in protective custody. Carl had a federal warrant, so there was nothing Shane or Alexa could do to stop it. Farrell was back among the missing. Who knew where he would turn up next? Maybe as an anchor on CNN, or wired to one in Long Beach Harbor. Either way, Farrell was going to be a no-show at Nora’s wedding.