Powder Burn

by Ty Patterson

The detective’s hands tightened on the wheel as she came to a red light and slowed to a stop.

  ‘He won’t back down. He won’t stand by. He’ll keep doing his thing regardless of Matteo’s investigation.’

  ‘Until Covarra, or whoever the killers are, are dead,’ Quindica agreed.

  ‘Or he is.’

  Neither said a word after that until they reached headquarters.

  ‘Hey, Matteo,’ Difiore greeted the detective as he emerged from an office. ‘Those cops who were shadowing Grogan—’

  ‘They lost him.’

  ‘He was at El Abajeno’s half an hour ago. He might still be there if your men hustle.’

  Matteo stared at her as he reached for his phone automatically. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We were having our lunch there when we spotted him.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Quindica hissed at her when they were alone.

  ‘Enjoying myself,’ said the detective, her eyes dancing. ‘We have premium seats to the Cutter Grogan show.’

  31

  Cutter picked up the cops when he was on the Santa Monica Freeway.

  Same dudes, same unmarked Chrysler, three cars behind. They’re wearing shades this time, as if it’s a disguise.

  I bet Difiore told Matteo where I was. He grinned sardonically as he kept going and took the exit to the Harbor Freeway. He headed to the LA Convention Center and drove aimlessly through its immense parking lot; sure enough, the Chrysler followed him.

  The cops hadn’t done anything wrong. They had alternated between shadowing him and overtaking him and always kept several vehicles behind or in the front. However, Cutter was a battle-hardened veteran who had lived undercover in terrorist country. His inner radar had pinged and, after several counter-surveillance maneuvers, he had spotted the cops.

  He needed to shake them again, however.

  Chad’s stowed the weapons in Union Station. Can’t let the cops see me collecting them.

  He exited the conference venue and drove into downtown LA, making random turns, entering and exiting streets for no reason. He parked at a bay near Grand Central Market and hopped out of his vehicle. Made a show of speaking loudly in his cell phone and gesticulating furiously. He went inside and joined hundreds of shoppers. Browsed at several stalls and, at the food section, barged into a crowd of tourists and lost his followers.

  He hurried out on Third Street and sprinted to Office Depot on Second Street, where he had parked the Tahoe.

  The cops would exit the market and keep eyes on his Land Cruiser.

  He chuckled and drove to Union Station, to the Amtrak lockers. Brought up the ticket on his cell phone that Chad had sent. Showed it to the attendant at the luggage storage place, who disappeared and returned with a gym bag.

  ‘That’s heavy,’ he grunted.

  ‘Yeah, skiing equipment.’

  Cutter returned to his Tahoe and dumped it in its cargo space. Unzipped it swiftly and whistled in admiration when he saw the gear his friend had packed. C4 explosives, several detonators, spare Glocks, knives, magazines, more drones and equipment.

  This is more than I need. He made a mental note to top up Chad’s bank account with an additional payment.

  He drove to his house on Sycamore, checked it out to make sure there was no police surveillance, and entered it. He returned with more gear and drove to East LA, where he checked into a motel under a fake identity and stayed there until evening fell.

  He drove out when it got dark and found a parking space on Dittmar Avenue. He changed into the older-person disguise inside his vehicle, settled into the driver’s seat and brought out a book to read.

  * * *

  Cutter made his move at three am, while the city slumbered.

  He brought out the drone and flew it high over the street. The first recon was over the house with the wooden fence. Thermal imaging was clear. Two figures in a bedroom. One had the size of the older man, the other was smaller. His wife or partner.

  Would they be Street Front thugs?

  Doubtful. Criminal gangs didn’t recruit from that age group.

  He navigated the drone to the second house and smiled coldly in the dark when he saw the shapes of four men. Two of them were in the living room, one each in two bedrooms.

  He frowned when he recalled the tricycle. He checked his screen again. No children, no women.

  He leaned back and thought it over. If Brae had been right, then either one of those houses were Street Front’s. Judging by the occupants, the chain-link fence was the more likely one.

  That kids’ bike could be fake. To present a false image.

  He inspected the house again. Two exits. One, a driveway that opened into Dittmar; the other, the one he had spotted two nights ago, the entrance from Verona Street. A living room facing that street, while the two bedrooms were next to the driveway. A garage that showed no signs of occupancy.

  He checked out the neighboring residences. The one behind the target house was smaller. A family of four. The house next to it on Dittmar had three occupants, a couple and a child. More families in the next two.

  Cutter was parked in front of the fourth house from the target one, on Dittmar. All of them have bigger plots, bigger backyards, than that one.

  There was only one way to be sure if those four men were bangers.

  32

  Cutter left the Tahoe and slow-walked down Dittmar. An occasional passing car, street lights that glowed orange in the night, no one else on the sidewalk.

  He turned right on Verona and checked out several parked cars. He smashed the windows of three of them with the butt of his Glock, raced across Dittmar and threw himself down on the patch of grass in front of Salazar Park.

  He brought up his night-vision goggles and trained them on Verona as the car alarms rang shrilly in the night.

  The old man came to the door of the wooden-fence house on the left. He was in pajamas and peered into the darkness. Shook his head and went back inside. Nope, not a banger. He wasn’t armed.

  Lights turned on in more houses, and their residents came out. Voices rose as the car owners discovered the state of their vehicles. Cutter ignored them.

  He was observing the chain-link fence house, where a door had opened and two men had emerged. Both of them bearded, standing close together, neither venturing into the street.

  It was what they were carrying that interested him. AR-15s, by the looks of the rifles.

  He had his answer.

  He returned to his vehicle when all the residents disappeared back into the houses. Launched the drone again, and it looked like the figures in the living room were the ones who had ventured out. The ones from the bedroom hadn’t moved.

  Cutter changed into combat trousers and a dark vest that went over his armor. Drew a jacket around him and strapped his HK to his back, put his Glock in its holster, and stuffed tear gas and stun grenades into his pocket. He drew thin gloves over his hands and checked that his disguise was intact.

  The drone had another hour of flight time on it, after which it would return to its launch location.

  Enough time for him to execute his attack.

  He got out of the Tahoe and went down Dittmar again and went to the first car on Verona. Crouched and attached a remote-operated explosive to its chassis.

  He returned to Dittmar and went down the driveway of the house he had parked in front of. Ignored the security cameras. They’ll record an elderly-looking man.

  He vaulted over the fence and landed in the neighbor’s back garden. The third house from the bangers’. A motion-activated light came on as he darted silently on the soft grass and climbed over the next fence and dropped onto the concrete yard of the neighboring house.

  A dog barked from inside. He swore and hustled to the six-foot-high wooden barrier, beyond which was the target residence.

  Looked once at the glass doors of the house that held the barking animal. No lights had come on yet. He hoped that would continue. All he needed was a few
more minutes.

  He brought up the drone’s screen. No change to the status of the occupants. The same two men in the front room overlooking Verona, the others in their bedrooms. They’re probably on some kind of guard detail, taking turns in pairs.

  He detonated the explosive, which exploded with a dull but audible whump. The car lit up his screen with a bright flare as it burst into flames.

  Several moments passed, and then lights turned on in several houses.

  The two bangers in the living room moved. They went to the door and left the house to inspect the burning car.

  The men in the bedroom got up and went out as well. However, one of them waited in the living room, peering through the window, while the other came to the door at the driveway, opened it and stood in it.

  Dog barking from the house to his left. A banger just across the fence. Two others outside the house on Verona. A fourth inside the residence. Many people up and down the street, judging by the voices coming to him.

  It was time to attack.

  33

  Cutter glanced at the screen one last time to check the locations of the hitters. All of them are armed. The one at the driveway door, however, looked relaxed. He hasn’t seen any threat from that side.

  He attached the screen to his vest with Velcro strips and zipped his jacket over it. Removed a balaclava mask and put it over his head. Adjusted it over his eyes so that the transparent glasses were visible. He often used disguises to not just mask his real look but also to give something to be remembered.

  He took three steps back, ran over his move in his mind, and sprinted.

  With two long strides, he reached the fence. Planted his left foot high on it and vaulted it easily, with his left hand for balance.

  The banger was looking right at him, his face scrunched together. Dog! He’s annoyed by its barking. That expression changed to surprise and then alarm as Cutter landed smoothly on the balls of his feet.

  He lunged forward in a smooth, animal motion, as if the night parted for him. He swatted the rising rifle away easily, but retained his hold on it long enough to control the sideways movement so that it didn’t slam into the door jamb.

  His Benchmade cut through the air and slid into the banger’s chest with ease as his momentum and the force of his jab got the blade to pierce skin and flesh and muscles. His left hand left the rifle and crushed the hood’s lips to muffle his warning shout. It turned to a groan when the knife retreated and jabbed several times in a blur of motion.

  Cutter laid him down gently, retrieved his AR-15 and entered the house. He rested the rifle on the floor and, crouching low, moved fast inside the residence. Kitchen, dining room, and ahead, the living room. Sounds from the street. Angry and alarmed voices that had drowned out the sounds of his attack.

  The banger was against the window, watching cautiously through a chink in the curtain. He stiffened suddenly, as if alerted by a reflection in the window, and threw himself to the side.

  Cutter was anticipating the move. He dove at the hitter, grunted when the rifle’s hard edge slammed into his side, and then he was on top of the hood, who was punching furiously, trying to regain control of the AR-15.

  Can’t let him shoot. That will alert the neighborhood. It was why he had opted for the Benchmade. He head-butted the banger savagely. Brought down the handle of his Benchmade on the hood’s forehead and was raising his hand for another blow when the scrape of a foot alerted him.

  He grabbed the banger with one hand, turned on his back, getting the thug to roll on top of him, and shoved the hood away with all his strength at the two men who had entered the living room through the driveway door.

  They circled the house and came that way. Must have spotted their dead friend but didn’t shoot. They want me alive.

  The man he had attacked slid on the floor and made one banger stumble. Cutter powered off the floor with his left hand and struck Staggering Banger in the belly with his blade. Extracted it in a blur of motion and wrapped his left arm around the man’s neck and sent both of them heaving into the fourth hood, who was jumping away to get clear for a shot.

  The three of them fell in a tangle of bodies, their weapons clattering to the floor. Cutter, on top, slashed indiscriminately with his knife until he saw the terror-stricken eyes of Fourth Hood.

  ‘Don’t talk. Don’t move,’ he whispered, ‘or I’ll cut your neck and let you bleed to death.’

  The man nodded dumbly.

  He eased up cautiously, his knife held at the ready, and rolled Staggering Man over. The thug was beyond help. Blood frothed in his mouth as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.

  He snapped a glance at Window Hood, who was still alive and, as he watched, lunged for a rifle. Cutter skipped a step with his right foot and pole-axed the man with a wicked kick that dropped him to the floor.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked Fourth Hood.

  He raised his Benchmade menacingly when the thug didn’t respond initially.

  ‘Ernesto.’ The hood licked his lips.

  ‘Get up.’

  He watched alertly as the banger stood up.

  ‘Your friend in the driveway—’

  ‘He’s dead! You killed him.’

  ‘You should have shot me, you had the chance.’

  ‘Snake wanted you alive—’

  He cut himself off abruptly.

  ‘Shut the front door. If you shout, you’re dead.’

  The banger followed his orders without resistance. He tied and gagged Window Hood and dragged Driveway Banger inside the house and closed the rear door.

  ‘Sit.’ Cutter pointed to a chair at the window. ‘Snake wanted me alive … who does he think I am?’

  Ernesto stared at him defiantly for several moments and looked away.

  No time for polite questioning, and with that thought, Cutter thrust his blade deep into the banger’s thigh and jammed his left hand over the man’s mouth to muffle his shriek.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ he grated, then removed his hand to let the man answer.

  ‘I … DON’T … KNOW … SNAKE … TOLD … US … TO … BE … ALERT … FOR … WHOEVER … COMES … AND … TAKE … HIM … ALIVE.’

  Cutter knifed him in the shoulder and winced when Ernesto bit his palm in agony.

  ‘IT’S … TRUE …’ the banger cried.

  ‘Why are you here? What’s in this house?’

  The hood looked away.

  ‘OXY!’ he shrieked when Cutter grabbed his neck and thrust the blade at his eye.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Kitchen counter. Storage under it.’

  Cutter looked at him in surprise and backtracked cautiously towards the sink. He reached behind him, felt for a door knob on the counter door and opened it. Snatched a glance and whistled in surprise at the cardboard box filled with baggies.

  The counter was L-shaped, with several doors beneath its ceramic surface. He opened them all and found one more box.

  He sensed Ernesto’s move before he heard it. He ducked away without looking back, caught the rushing man by his neck and slammed his face on the countertop.

  Ernesto howled in pain. His second scream turned into a choking gasp when Cutter punched him in the belly.

  ‘You give me no choice.’ He thrust the banger into a chair and tied his wrists with cable ties. He secured Ernesto’s legs to the chair with rope he found in the kitchen.

  He moved the dining table out of the way and brought out the cardboard boxes and placed them on the floor. He removed one packet and hefted it in his hand.

  Mexican Oxy—he recognized the blue pills. Fentanyl that was cooked in laboratories south of the border and distributed by the cartels.

  The synthetic drug was fast replacing heroin in the illegal drug trade. Each pill sells for ten to twenty dollars on the street, he mused as he inspected one baggie. He recalled Matteo’s briefing on the Street Front, which felt like it had happened years ago. Covarra’s linked to the Juarez Cartel. That’
s where he gets his supply. The number of baggies suggested the house had close to a million dollars’ worth of narcotics.

  ‘This is your store?’ he asked the banger. ‘Where do you keep the drugs for distributing?’

  Ernesto tried to stay defiant but dropped his head and nodded when Cutter moved menacingly. ‘Si,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Street Front’s a big gang.’ Cutter scratched his cheek as he paced the kitchen. ‘This can’t be the only warehouse you’ve got.’ He grabbed Ernesto’s hair and yanked his head up. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘I DON’T KNOW,’ the banger shrieked. ‘I WATCH OVER THIS ONE ONLY.’

  ‘Of course, you know,’ he scoffed. ‘You’re guarding this amount of drugs, which means Covarra trusts you. You’re part of his inner circle. You’ll know where the other places are. A gang like yours doesn’t rely on just one stock point.’ He inspected his Benchmade, twisted it this way and that, to make light shine off its metal.

  He surged forward suddenly towards his captive, the knife’s point held high.

  Ernesto screamed and fell to the floor as he reared back with his legs.

  ‘STOP!’ He pleaded. ‘BOYLE HEIGHTS. FOREST AVENUE.’

  ‘That’s where another store is?’

  ‘SI, SI, THAT’S THE ONLY ONE I KNOW.’

  Cutter hauled him up and slashed the blade across the front of his chest, a thin cut that oozed blood immediately.

  The banger looked down in horror and then up. His mouth worked for several moments before sound emerged. ‘I DON’T KNOW OTHER PLACES. I SWEAR,’ he howled. ‘THAT’S THE ONLY ONE.’

  ‘Is that the same size as this one?’

  ‘BIGGER. MORE GUARDS.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I DON’T KNOW. I WENT THERE ONLY TWICE.’

  Cutter sized him up. The banger was sweating, bloody, and his face was tear-streaked. The desperation in his voice was unmistakable.

  He’s telling the truth.

  ‘Where is Covarra?’

  ‘I DON’T KNOW. I GET ORDERS FROM FUSE, NOT FROM HIM. I DON’T MEET HIM.’