Grabbing him by the shoulders, I quickly dragged him to the far side of the the trailer with the bikes up against its side. Pilgrim came to me at a finger wave just as the two kids came running down to the sidewalk. They looked about as if a magic trick just happened, and in a way, it had. I was there and then I wasn’t. They went running back to their mother.
I figured there must be at least one more guard, one for each corner of the compass, and that he probably stood, or sat, to the south. Question now was, did I take him out or just proceed to the trailer? If I wasted the time to track him down I could be discovered, or he could cry out like just about happened. But if I didn’t and I ended up in a gun battle with Majoqui Cabrera, I’d be open to the rear and he could back-shoot me.
Not much of a choice really, I had to take him out.
Pilgrim slipped away from me, moving fast, until he started his shark-like air scenting. I saw the fourth, and hopefully, last guard three trailers to the southeast. Again, he was older, early twenties, but no beer belly or unibrow. He looked hard and sleek, with streaks of prison-ink tattoos creeping up from beneath the collar of his shirt and licking the undersides of his jaw.
The guy looked tough and capable, but he hadn’t heard the scuffle with unibrow, or at least he hadn’t associated it with danger to himself or his boss, so maybe he wasn’t quite as capable as he looked. Either that or he was deaf.
He stood directly in front of trailer #23 and that presented a whole new problem. If I took him out in front of Majoqui’s trailer, he was pretty sure to spot me. If I put him down fast enough and there weren’t more bangers in the trailer with Majoqui, it might work out all right. But if not, it could turn bad really fast.
I decided the best course of action was to bring this last guard to me.
Slipping my head back around the side and hugging the trailer, I coughed three times. Not too loud, as though I was trying to suppress it, then another three, this time a little louder. Pilgrim lay at my feet, his head fixated on the front of the trailer where the guard would approach. I watched him closely. Knowing him as I did, I knew what to look for.
There! Pilgrim’s head canted to the side, the way dogs do when they are watching television or listening to the radio. I swung just as the last guard rounded the corner. It was a solid punch and it landed square on the chin. He went down, but as I thought, he was tough and jumped back to his feet, trying for a fighting stance. But he wobbled and staggered, his balance and equilibrium gone. He was really pretty much out on his feet. I almost hated finishing him off, but it had to be done. I cracked him in the forehead and that did the trick. A quick truss job, a stashing by the trailers, and that took care of business.
All that remained was to go have a face to face with a monster.
57
Thirty-Eight watched from the safety and distance of the dirt road. He shook his head as the white cop took out the last of the guards. Now how had he known he was coming round that corner? Thirty-Eight raised his eyebrows as the guard went out — impressed. And Thirty-Eight didn’t impress easily. The guy had taken out four posted guards in about ten minutes, without any of them being able to sound an alarm and without even killing them.
He wondered at the man’s game. What sort of vendetta did he have against the Crow, and why? Not that it really mattered. What did matter was that The Crow and his men had to die, here, today, now. Would the man’s actions affect that? He certainly seemed capable and acquitted himself well, but the hired help was one thing, The Crow himself quite another matter.
Looking back at his men he considered. Most of them were boys now, his best and oldest dead. Mara had killed many, but once the Bloods saw the Crips weakness they had joined in and taken out more of his soldiers. The enemy of my enemy, and all that philosophical history crap. The end result being that the bulk of his fighting force had been devastated to the point of near collapse.
So, what to do? If he charged down there now and The Crow expected it, like he did at the parking lot, then he and his men would likely be wiped out. If the cop had set him up, somehow working with The Crow, then again, they would be crushed. On the other hand, he didn’t see how the cop could even know they were there and the same went for The Crow.
If he let the cop go in alone and he failed, the worst that could happen would be that The Crow would try and escape. But Thirty-Eight had seven cars to stop that. Besides, if the cop managed to take a few of The Crow’s men out, that left less to pose a danger for him and his boys.
He picked up the binoculars and prepared to watch the show.
58
Byers, Colorado, sleepy little city, way out east in the boonies, where small town America lived. A place where people still waved as you drove by and said ‘hi’, or ‘howdy’, with a genuine smile on their face and a glint in their eye.
Jim Black hated places like this. He was a city boy through and through and held a natural mistrust of anyone “too open.” Just what were they hiding behind those smiles? And what did that glint mean? Were they plotting on him? They had to be up to something. More than that was the way they talked, not exactly Texan or even southern, but…different. Like the ‘howdy’, not uber country, but close… almost. One of Jim’s biggest pet peeves happened at cop conventions and award ceremonies where cops from the big states like New York, or California would joke about Colorado being nothing more than a cow town. Some of these guys wouldn’t even believe him that horses and carriages weren’t a normal means of travel in the downtown area anymore. He couldn’t count how many times he’d been asked where his Stetson was. It drove him nuts.
Towns like Byers were why the myth perpetuated.
Not that city life didn’t have its pitfalls…
…the ceiling exploded as bullets ripped through the wood and plaster. SWAT agents, caught completely by surprise reacted to the barrage by jerking and dancing back and forth, blood puffing in mist like detonations as screaming lead tore into them…
Jim shook his head, yes, pitfalls. He wondered if Byers might not come face to face with some of those city pitfalls before the day ended. He hoped not, or did he? If Majoqui Cabrera ended up actually being there, they might be able to end this now, without the cavalry, just he and Gil Mason. If it worked out that way, Gil would say he’d never been there, leaving all the glory to Jim. Of course Cabrera could have an army stationed out here and they could easily be walking into a slaughter.
…the first man never even saw him as the holes — so black — so impossibly black — opened up as if by magic in the center of his chest — sucking the life away from him and leaving his dead body to crumple and fall and then the turn, ever so slight, just a fraction of movement and the sights lined up perfectly and the man’s eyes growing wide and…
Jim didn’t want that, not again, not this soon anyway. Give me some time, he thought, just a little time and I’ll be right as rain.
Maybe Cabrera was out there alone. Or maybe just him and his little chicky, this Tamera Sun, and their vacation home as it were. If that were the case, everything might go just the way it should. Easy and safe, with no one shooting or getting shot. No magic black holes — how could they be so black — blood isn’t black, it’s red — red — red! — no invisible assassins shooting through walls and floors and ceilings. Just a double click of cuffs being set snuggly in place and a long ride back to the station. And from there, a few congratulatory drinks at the local cop shop and then a promotion and one step closer to the nomination as County Sheriff.
Taking the off ramp, he curved first to the south, then back to the east, stopped at the light and when it changed, continued north past the small gas station. He saw Gil’s car parked on the far north side and pulled in next to it.
…the chatter of automatic gunfire stopped as he felt the jolt to his arms and the release of velocity from the barrel of his weapon. The gang banger’s eyes grew wide — so wide — then death stole their power…
Jim grunted and popped the magazine from his gun
, full, then snapped it back in. Something told him he hadn’t yet seen the end of today’s death.
59
No screen door on trailer twenty-three, just a cheap looking hollow-core wood job with a doorknob lock. Not even a dead-bolt. The windows were curtained and the door bare of peepholes or glass. I reared back and kicked. The door banged open with little resistance. I stepped in, gun drawn and aiming. The sun would have killed my inside vision except that I’d anticipated that and spent over a minute shielding my eyes with my hand before kicking.
Ten or fifteen gang-bangers of various ages all turned to look at me. A cloud of marijuana smoke sucked past me and into the daylight. No Majoqui Cabrera. An instant of surprised stillness and silence ensued while we stared at each other. And then, as if on cue, they all started reaching for weapons.
One stood up and I shot him in the hip. I grabbed the door handle and jumped back. The lock broken, I pulled hard enough that the hinges bent and the door wedged at an angle.
I’d left Pilgrim on the side of the trailer and as I turned to see if he was still there, the guy with the beer gut and the ripped out throat came staggering around the corner waving a gun at me. He cranked off three rounds, none of them even coming close. There was a blur of brown and black fur and Pilgrim hit him with roughly the speed and force of an Intercontinental Ballistic Missile. Unibrow fell to the dirt forming a mushroom cloud as Pilgrim thrashed him back and forth.
I’d been about to shoot him when Pilgrim showed up and was just lowering my gun as something burned through my thigh. The sound of the gunshot registered an instant later and I looked up to see Majoqui Cabrera standing on the porch of the trailer next door. He fired again and I felt the slug slap me in the center of my chest followed by two more that hit me high on the right pec and another that whizzed past my ear.
Pilgrim yipped and as I turned I saw him fall, blood wetting the side of his head.
Turning back I felt perfectly calm, steady as a rock. I slowly lifted my gun and put the front sight in the middle of Majoqui’s face. The blade and dot of the sight grew sharp for an instant and then I let the sight go blurry as his face became crisp and clear, opposite of all my training, but oh so important to see his expression as the bullet obliterated him once and for all. His face lost all expression as he realized there was no stopping the shot. He grinned at me — grinned — and stretched his arms out to the side with the gun held away — inviting the shot.
I felt nothing, not the blood running down my leg or the bruising in my chest. Not fear or anger or rage or even relief — nothing.
I pulled back on the trigger as the door burst open and a hoard of bodies swallowed me. The bullet meant for Majoqui Cabrera struck a man that moved in front of me as I crashed off the porch and crushed into the dirt, fists punching and boots and shoes kicking. I tried to fight back, mindless of them, of any of them, my only thought to get to Majoqui Cabrera.
A fist hit me in the kidney and a boot caught me in the nose and lips. Blood poured and I felt the gun wrenched from my fingers. I reached around and grabbed a pair of nostrils with my fingers and jerked, feeling the flesh tear and hearing a scream. I bit someone’s forearm and spit out a chunk of hot meat. Something hard and unyielding smashed into my head and I almost went out, but shrimped ahead and managed to kick someone in the groin before three bodies fell on my right arm, pinning it to the ground. Another two guys covered my left. A fat guy grabbed both legs in his arms and buried his chest over my knees as a big muscular guy with blood streaming from a damaged nose reared back and kicked me full on in the temple.
Everything went dark and once again I felt nothing at all.
60
Majoqui Cabrera heard the first gunshot and sprang from the couch with a panther’s grace and fluidity. The gun in his hand felt like an extension of his being. Tamera had hardly registered the fact that the sound had come from outside the trailer and not the movie they were watching. Her head turned his way, a quizzical expression raising her eyebrows.
Majoqui eased out the door and saw Angelo, blood flowing down his front in a sheet of crimson, shoot at the Americano police officer who stood on the porch of his army’s trailer next door. Holes punched uselessly into the thin skin of the trailer and then Angelo was savaged by the dog that had attacked Majoqui on that first night.
Majoqui fired quickly — too quickly — hitting the American in the leg. Instantly he calmed his excitement and took careful aim. He fired a shot directly into his enemies’ heart. The impact rocked the man and Majoqui fired twice more, both shots hitting home. And then a final time into the head of the dog that had finished Angelo and was even now charging toward him from behind his master.
The dog went down, but the American did not die, he did not even bleed. He too had protection. Majoqui realized the saints and the demons were testing them both. Testing their faith. Majoqui held his hands to the side. His power was the power and this American who had hunted him for months would not prevail. Puffing out his chest, Majoqui smiled.
The American aimed and the air grew completely still, the sun blazing its gentle warmth down on the two of them as the breeze stopped and all sound muted. So very different than that day long ago when he had been beaten into Mara and had killed a man much older than him. On that day the sun had raged and the air was choked with water that made the clothes stick to his skin and the sweat run freely. Majoqui did not die that day and he would not die today.
The door to the trailer exploded open and his men enveloped the American. The man fought bravely, but it ended quickly, the only way it could.
The blessed Mother herself protected Majoqui and not all the demons or saints, or even a bullet proof vest, could long save the American police officer from Majoqui’s power.
Still, the man had single-handedly located his hidden refuge. The gunfight made it impossible to stay here, but relocating was something he and his men were well used to. The only question that still remained was whether or not he had the time to dispose of the American the way he wanted to. To do so would require leaving with him now. His hatred and respect for the man was such that he actually considered it for a moment. But then his tactical mind took over. Knowing the true danger this man posed, he walked over and stood above the man’s head. The others moved aside as Majoqui pointed the revolver. It would be so much better to make this moment last, like on the bridge that night when he had murdered this man’s wife and child in front of his eyes. He sighed. Logic dictated he end it here and now. But still…
The American opened his eyes, blood running from numerous cuts and crusting his lips and nostrils. He looked up at Majoqui and laughed.
Majoqui decided.
He clicked back the hammer and took careful aim.
61
Thirty-Eight saw the car pull up next to the Police Officer’s behind the gas station. A man got out and looked around. Obviously a cop. He scouted a bit and soon found something under a tree that seemed to interest him. From Thirty-Eight’s position and distance, he couldn’t see what it was. The cop continued to the northwest, keeping to the trees, and soon was completely lost from sight.
Thirty-Eight caught a flicker of movement toward the south and refocused in that direction. A flash of light followed by two more — gunshots — and then a wave of commotion as a mob of bodies swarmed out of a trailer. No sounds made it this far, only the rush of traffic from the nearby highway. The binoculars focused and he saw the cop that he’d made the deal with fighting on the ground, completely swarmed by the men that charged out of the trailer. A brief, but intense struggle ensued, ending when a big man kicked the cop in the head.
A figure detached himself from the porch of the closest trailer and the crowd separated as he walked to the fallen cop. Thirty-Eight focused on the figure and as he watched him, he came to the realization that this was none other than The Crow. Something about his bearing and manner bespoke authority. And the way the men parted before him left no doubt to his rank.
T
here he was, his mortal enemy, the one person who stood between The Crips and Mara’s blood struggle for Colorado. So, what to do? He couldn’t make an exact count of soldiers down there, but it seemed about equal to his own troops. He didn’t like it. It was always better to have superior numbers on your side before going to battle. Add to that it was on the enemy’s home ground and it diminished The Crip’s odds even further. If they attacked and lost, it would mean the war. Even if they won, but suffered extreme losses it might mean giving Colorado to The Bloods, and that was completely unacceptable.
Thirty-Eight looked back at his men, stuffed into cars and waiting for his signal.
He did have the element of surprise, but how much would that shift the odds? Impossible to tell. He looked back and saw The Crow stand over the cop, still lying on the ground.
The man was dead, there was nothing Thirty-Eight could do for him from this distance. Not that he cared about the cop, he didn’t of course, but for some reason he did feel an unaccustomed pang of guilt. The sort of feeling he experienced more and more these days. He had made a deal with this man and the man had kept his part of the bargain.
The Crow pulled a gun up from his side and pointed it at the cop.
No, nothing he could do, no matter how he felt. There was no way to stop him from killing him. But… there was always revenge.
James Arthur Washington Jr. motioned to his men, sat back in the front passenger’s seat and signaled his driver to go.
62
Jim Black found the trail of unconscious bodies as he passed through the trees and from trailer to trailer. He began to feel a little afraid. Not of the Thirteen’s, but of Gil Mason. He’d always known Gil was tough and efficient, but what he was seeing now seemed more on a level with secret agent stuff. How had he managed it? And then he heard two kids arguing with their mother who finally yelled at them to shut up and go to their room. Moving quickly and quietly, he passed the porch. He almost didn’t see the banger lying on his stomach with his hands and feet zip-tied, pushed up tight against the scarf of the far side of the trailer. The dude was out cold and looked like he had a broken jaw. Who did Gil think he was, Chuck Norris? Jim lifted a lid and the pupil was rolled up high, showing almost all white. He let it fall. Maybe Gil is Chuck Norris, he thought.
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 66
