Powder Burn

by Ty Patterson

  ‘Enough.’ She raised a palm. ‘If I want cheering up, I’ll know who to come to. Something on your plate?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I got a visitor today.’

  ‘Cutter.’ She grinned. ‘Vance told me they almost arrested him last night. At that house. I was expecting a call from him. I knew he would look you up.’

  ‘He won’t call you.’

  She eyed him speculatively. ‘It’s like that, is it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’s a friend … heck, I owe him my life—’

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘But I can’t let him carry out his own investigation. It will interfere with the task force.’

  ‘That’s what I told him.’

  ‘He ask you for any inside info?’

  ‘Nope.’ He could lie for his friend. He owed Cutter that much.

  ‘You got his number?’

  He gave it to her.

  * * *

  Lisa Dade looked at it when Terry had left. She didn’t call Cutter, however. She dialed a number in New York.

  ‘Peyton,’ she told the FBI SAC in New York, ‘this might interest you.’

  8

  Cutter returned to his accommodations on Sycamore Avenue. Showered and applied a fake nose and cheek pads. A brown wig over his dark hair. Contacts to change his eyes to a light blue. Transparent glasses to give a faintly academic air.

  He put on the armor, a lightweight kind that only a few covert operatives had access to, and donned a shirt over it. He tucked it in his jeans and wrapped the waist holster across his belt. A thin jacket was the last garment, the buttons of which split open easily to enable a quick draw. Spare magazine in his pocket, thin, transparent gloves on his hands, and he was ready.

  * * *

  Recon before attack.

  Blue Goose was on the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Virgil Avenue. A low-slung bar that was hopping, music throbbing and spilling out onto the busy streets, signboard flashing on its roof.

  Cutter parked in a vacant space and fed the meter as he checked out the entrants. Mixed race, mixed age. No particular demographic was prominent. No bangers sporting guns or tattoos. That would be bad for business.

  He walked around the bar. It fronted both the main streets, and to its rear was an unnamed alley that ran a long way down to the intersection with Lexington Avenue. A tall iron fence at the rear that closed off the backyard of the bar. That could be a delivery entrance. As he watched, the back door opened. A splash of light and music spilled into the quiet alley and a man emerged. Chef, taking a breather. The man fumbled in his pockets, came out with a cigarette, lit it, inhaled and blew out with a sigh.

  Cutter ghosted around the alley, noting the two cameras at the back, and joined the line of entrants at the front.

  The interior was warm, dark curtains hanging from the ceiling to muffle the sounds of the pounding beat. A Prohibition-style bar to his left, at which were stools and a crush of people. A stretch of dining tables spaced out to his right. At the far end was a small stage with a keyboard, a drum set and speakers. No performers on it.

  He went to the bar and ordered his drink. Found an empty table and settled in to watch. Drew out his phone and scrolled on it occasionally, as if he were reading it.

  The restrooms were behind a curtained partition to his eleven-o’clock. After an hour, he went down the passage and checked them out. Beyond them was the kitchen and a passage that opened around the bar for the servers to bring food through.

  No gangbangers in sight.

  They came at twelve am.

  Four of them, with a distinctive gang swagger. Loose shirts, tattooed arms, low-riding jeans, baseball caps at an angle, and jewelry.

  He thought they looked familiar, looked similar to some of the members’ photographs that Matteo and Cruz had shown him.

  One of them yelled raucously at the bartender, who waved and gestured at the stage.

  None of them is Covarra or Salazar. Is that where they’re going to sit?

  That’s where the heavies arranged themselves. They brought out a folding table from the back of the elevated area, a couch and two chairs, and sprawled on it like they owned the place. A server brought over drinks and two bowls of nachos. They dipped into their food and swigged from their bottles, ignoring the rest of the patrons.

  Need to confirm who they are. The cops had shown him several images, and he could be mistaken in recognizing them.

  Cutter got his chance half an hour later.

  One of the men got to his feet, pulled up his Tee and scratched his belly. The butt of a waist-tucked gun was visible even at this distance. He belched and stumbled toward the bathroom.

  He was washing his face when Cutter joined him at the line of sinks. He stumbled and crashed into the man. Got hold of his Tee and yanked down hard, making it look like he was regaining his balance.

  There it was. The tattoo on the neck that identified LA Street Front thugs. A man lying on a sidewalk.

  ‘S’rry, bud,’ Cutter slurred and let go of the hood, who cursed and knocked his hand away.

  Cutter raised his palms in a peace gesture and went to the last sink, where he washed up and staggered out. He returned to the bar, paid up and went out quickly.

  Brought his Land Cruiser to the front of the bar, where he parked illegally and made to look like he was arguing on the phone.

  The bangers came out at two am. Laughing, backslapping and high-fiving. Bathroom Man leered at a couple of women who were leaving too. They stiffened but made no comment and hurried away, which amused the thugs even more.

  Cutter fired up his ride and followed them at a distance. Watched them climb into an SUV that was parked in a neighboring house’s drive and fell behind them when they hit the Hollywood Freeway. They went southeast, through downtown, where they exited at the East LA Interchange and entered Boyle Heights.

  Dense neighborhood. Public housing projects. Multiple gangs in the area, where often one side of a street belonged to one outfit, the other to another. All of them in perpetual conflict with one another. Tagging, firebombing, drive-by shooting, racial harassment—this locality had seen it all.

  Crime had reduced in recent years, the graffiti had disappeared in many places, but the bangers were there. Hispanic crews clashed with black outfits. Several white supremacy gangs had emerged as well.

  It was worse before. At one time, bullets had replaced hope. He knew this, because he had spent several months undercover in Los Angeles, infiltrating a violent gang that had links to terrorism. One of the redacted missions in his military file.

  He slowed further when the SUV’s tail lights flared and it came to a stop. Bathroom Man climbed out and spoke through the window at his crew. He fist-bumped them and approached a house as the vehicle departed.

  Cutter drove down the street. Oregon Street. Single-family homes. Trash bins on the sidewalk. A kid’s bicycle leaning against a lamp post. Lines of cars parked on the street. A few houses were lit from within, but most were dark and there was no street traffic other than his ride.

  The dim glow of the city bathed the neighborhood as he parked several houses away and walked back to Bathroom Man’s house.

  A spiked metal fence, a small gate, a chipped concrete walkway, a lawn that was once green but now was dirt and dead plants. Several plastic bags, fast-food containers littered near the wall.

  Looks like a one- or two-bedroom house.

  He had to question the banger, find out where Covarra and his deputy hung out. He jumped over the fence and crouched low as he went to the nearest window.

  Living room. A couch. Bathroom Man on it, idly thumbing a remote, surfing channels on TV. Alone. He went down the side of the house. A dark window. Could be a bedroom. He came up against the rear fence and a pile of trash that he dared not navigate. Any sound will alert him.

  He had returned to the front to check out the other side of the house when the scream stopped him. />
  9

  Cutter dropped lower, almost hugging the ground as the shriek pierced the night.

  ‘No! Please. I—’

  ‘BEER!’ Bathroom Man’s voice was unmistakable. ‘I TOLD YOU TO STOCK IT. WHY DIDN’T YOU—’

  The sound of flesh being smacked.

  Cutter looked at the neighboring houses to the left and right. No lights came on. Not across the street, either. They’re probably used to it.

  He crab-walked to the living room window and risked a glance. Bathroom Man was on his feet. Left hand grabbing the long hair of a dark-skinned woman, who was cowering in fear. As he watched, the banger slapped her across the face and punched her belly.

  She screamed again. ‘I’m sorry, Moe. Don’t hit me. Not there. The baby—’

  ‘BABY? DID I ASK YOU TO GET KNOCKED UP? DID I WANT THAT?’

  He slapped her again, a heavy blow that rocked her head to the side. ‘I BET IT’S NOT MINE. WHOSE IS IT? WHO’RE YOU—’

  The scene registered and was translated to a command by Cutter’s brain, which fired electrical impulses to his muscle, turning him from stationary to liquid, flowing movement as he exploded into action.

  He broke the window’s glass with his elbow and dived inside the house. Rolled once and got to his feet and faced Bathroom Man, who gaped at his sudden entrance.

  ‘Who’re you, dude’ he blinked.

  His face lit up in recognition.

  ‘YOU! IN THE BATHROOM!’ He yanked the woman’s hair hard and brought her to the front. ‘SHE BANGING YOU? You seeing him on the side?’ He snarled at her.

  She moaned. Her cry turned into a choking sob when he punched her hard in the belly.

  ‘Stop.’ Cutter didn’t recognize his own low voice. He was still. That familiar feeling of being at a distance, as if observing himself, came over him. ‘Leave her alone.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, homie? You’d want that, wouldn’t you? You been seeing her when I was away?’ His fist cocked. His eyes turned mean.

  ‘I DON’T KNOW HIM,’ the woman screamed and shrank when he turned on her. ‘I swear, Moe, he’s a stranger. I don’t know where he came from.’

  Cutter took her in fully. Tall. Swollen eyes, bruises on her face. Cracked lips. Blood on her white Tee from the cuts on her face. The roundness of her belly that he could now see. Her eyes were dark with tears.

  ‘I don’t know him,’ she repeated brokenly.

  ‘She’s telling the truth. Let her go.’

  ‘SHE’S MINE!’ Moe yelled.

  He raised his hand to deliver another blow when the door opened and his crew entered.

  10

  The three men who had been with Moe at the bar. They swaggered in, grinning menacingly, and cut off his escape routes.

  Cutter to the right in the living room, the new arrivals to his four-o’clock. Moe and his girlfriend in front of him, just over ten feet away.

  The front door slammed as one of the hoods kicked it shut.

  ‘Wassup, Moe?’ he grinned wickedly, his thumbs tucked in his waist. ‘You ‘splainin’ the rules to your woman?’

  ‘Dime,’ said a second hood, whose lips curled as he bobbed his head at the first speaker, ‘suspected we were being followed. We tracked back and sure enough, this dawg’s here. Who’s he?’

  ‘Brae’s banging him,’ Moe said bitterly. He jerked her hair hard. Made her whimper and stumble. Straightened her with another savage pull.

  ‘Who’s the homie? Looks familiar.’

  ‘He was at the Blue Goose,’ the banger raged. ‘He mad-dogged me in the bathroom. I could feel his eyes even when I left.’

  ‘Who are you, dawg? You with the 13? Crips? Kings?’

  Cutter didn’t reply. He had assessed attack vectors instantly. Flight wasn’t an option anymore. He was outnumbered four to one. Moe wasn’t a threat—for now, he was occupied with his girlfriend. But the three hoods were.

  He was at a disadvantage, since they were behind him and he would have to turn to take them on. They were bunched too close, though, and they believed they had him trapped. None of them had drawn weapons, either.

  I can come out of this.

  ‘Dawg? Homie? Dude?’ Dime snapped his fingers to get Cutter’s attention.

  He still didn’t reply. He watched Brae, who was staring back at him, her head twisted at a painful angle from the grip Moe had on her.

  She’s saying something.

  Her lips moved.

  She’s praying.

  No. That wasn’t it. Her eyes were desperate.

  He ignored the bangers for a moment and let himself feel her fear and desperation, and that, along with the movement of her mouth, did it for him.

  Save me. Please.

  He read her lips again to be sure.

  No doubt about it. She was pleading for his help.

  ‘HEY!’ Dime yelled. ‘YOU DEAF? WHO’RE YOU WITH?’

  ‘I’m my own gang,’ Cutter said, smiling. Nope, that didn’t strike fear in the hoods. He had to come up with better lines. He turned to face them, keeping Moe at nine o’clock. ‘She’s telling the truth. I don’t know her, either. It’s the first time I’ve seen her.’

  ‘His own gang! You hear that, Dime? We’ve got a smartass here. Drop him!’ the third hood hissed. ‘Moe, you seen him before?’

  ‘Nah. Homie’s a stranger. Don’t believe him. Brae’s got something going with him. Doncha, babe—’

  ‘Last chance.’ He had to give them that opportunity. ‘Let her go.’

  11

  Dime’s eyes narrowed at his confidence. ‘Look at him. Dawg’s surrounded by us. But the way he talks, he thinks he holds the cards,’ he spoke wonderingly.

  ‘He’s alone,’ Third Man growled. ‘We checked out the outside. The other cars. I say, drop him.’

  ‘We will.’ Dime’s eyes gleamed. ‘But not before we have some fun. We need to know which barrio he’s from. Hold him, Gusto.’ He drew out a long blade.

  Gusto, Third Man, stepped forward eagerly.

  A mistake, since for a brief moment his body covered Dime and Second Man.

  It was the last mistake he would ever make.

  Cutter’s hand flashed to his waist and came out with his Glock. It bucked as his first round caught the approaching banger plumb in the face. He dived backwards and double-tapped Second Man in the chest.

  Dime yelled in anger and threw the knife at him. It flew, slammed into the wall above Cutter’s head, and clattered to the floor. The hood clawed at his waist, came out with a gun and fell back when red splotches blossomed on his upper body.

  Cutter rolled desperately as Moe roared in fury, flinging Brae away and charging at Cutter.

  Can’t shoot. Need him alive.

  He kicked out and caught the rushing man in the belly, which sent him sprawling. The hood cursed and swore. Got to his knees and lunged across, his fist swinging.

  Cutter blocked the first blow, took the second to his chest, winced at the punch fueled by blind fury. He deflected the next incoming fist, trapped Moe’s wrist, and broke it. Followed that up with a throat jab that turned the hood’s shriek into a gasp. But the hitter wasn’t finished. He headbutted Cutter, who twisted away just in time but caught the blow on his cheek.

  Enough!

  He caught the man’s throat in a vise-like grip, powered up with his upper body, and flung him away with all his strength.

  Moe slammed into the wall and fell facedown. His hand tapped again limply on the floor as his body shuddered.

  What?

  Cutter crawled forward carefully, wary of a ruse. Swore at himself when he felt the thug’s broken neck. That crash against the wall … that did it. That was not the only killing blow, however. He sucked his breath sharply when he turned the body over and found Dime’s knife stuck in his belly.

  He got to his feet and checked out the remaining hoods.

  Dime’s eyes were flickering when he bent over the thug. ‘Where’s Covarra?’ he asked urgently. ‘Snake?’


  The hood looked at him blankly and the light left his eyes. Cutter checked out the other bangers. Dead. He went to the window and looked out cautiously. Still, no lights. No sounds of any cruisers, either.

  ‘Sir.’ He whipped around at the sound of Brae’s trembling voice.

  Forgot all about her.

  ‘I’ll do anything for you,’ she pleaded. ‘Please get me out of here.’

  He studied her: tall, willowy frame, neat features, long hair that she had straightened.

  ‘I don’t have money.’ She licked her lips and thrust her body at him. ‘We can go to the bedroom,’ she whispered.

  Shame flooded him when her meaning registered. ‘Ma’am,’ he replied thickly, his face red, ‘that’s … no.’ He gave up and looked away. Cursed himself savagely. Why did I check her out so openly? He had gotten himself under control when he looked back at her. ‘I was checking to see if you could walk. How badly are you hurt?’

  ‘I can move.’ She took a step forward, clutched her belly and grimaced.

  He was at her side in an instant. He held her hand and led her to the couch. Helped her sit.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘Where’s your room?’

  She pointed weakly down the hallway.

  Got to leave soon. Those shots wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. Moe and Dime’s buddies might come looking.

  Calling the cops wasn’t an option. They might arrest me. Matteo and Cruz will assume I’m on a vengeance run.

  Which was true.

  Brae’s room. Small bed. Curtains on the window. Nothing else. No photographs, jewelry, nothing personal.

  He went through the closet in her room and brought out a suitcase. Swiftly packed any clothing he could find, shoes, undergarments. Found her purse on her dresser. It was empty. He removed a thick bunch of bills from his wallet and stuffed them inside. Phone? He looked around but couldn’t find one. He checked beneath the pillows, mattress and bed but couldn’t find it, nor did he spot any cash.

  ‘Where’s your phone?’ he asked her when he returned to the living room.