by Ty Patterson
‘Go,’ he ordered and stood aside. ‘No tricks. I’ll be watching you.’
Cutter walked past him as another banger came up from behind a car and watched him balefully. More shooters appeared, lounging, alerted by his presence. None of them accosted him. He kept his left hand down his body, the sleeve of his jacket covering his palm. He would reveal his trump card only at the last moment.
* * *
Lasko slammed his palm against the wheel and cursed in frustration as the truck in front of him reversed for a U-turn.
‘THERE’S NOT ENOUGH ROOM!’ he yelled out of his window and got the driver’s upraised middle finger.
He thought of backing up and taking a different route and shook his head when he saw the long line of vehicles behind him, many of whom had the same idea. There was no point in leaving one congested street to go to another.
He waited, conscious of the time passing. Hoped that Covarra would hang around till he got there and called the cavalry.
* * *
Cutter got to the intersection and spotted the rendezvous immediately. A bunch of armed gangsters stood in front of an open door. Graffiti on the outside walls that he couldn’t read.
He stumbled inside when someone shoved him. Took in the industrial look of the warehouse automatically. Shooters lined against the aluminum-sheeted walls. Tube lighting above. The smell of sweat and body odors. Two men, about twenty feet away from him, one of whom was grinning triumphantly.
Covarra and Salazar.
59
‘Grogan.’ The gang leader’s voice promised violence.
Cutter felt a jolt of surprise but didn’t show it. How does he know my name? LAPD didn’t disclose it.
‘Search him,’ the Street Front boss ordered his people.
Two bangers stepped forward. One trained his assault rifle on him while the other searched him. The hood removed the Glock, which was visible, and tossed it to the floor. He reached down to the knife and brought it out. Whistled softly as it caught the air and waved it for show.
‘DON’T PLAY AROUND. SEARCH HIM,’ Covarra screeched. ‘Check if he’s wearing a wire.’
The hood patted him roughly. He raised his head sharply when he felt the uneven shapes beneath the jacket. He unzipped it and spread it open. He sucked his breath sharply as he stared uncomprehendingly at the suicide vest.
‘HE’S GOT A—’
‘A suicide vest.’ Cutter shoved him away and got closer to Covarra and Salazar. He ignored the raised rifles and the angry voices that burst out.
‘KILL HIM!’ Covarra yelled as he shrank back.
‘That would be a mistake.’ He held his left hand up and pushed back the sleeve for his audience to get a better view. ‘See my thumb? Dead Man Switch. You kill me and the explosives go off. I have packed enough to kill everyone in a fifty-foot radius. DON’T MOVE!’ he used his command voice to stop the gang leader, who was inching backwards. ‘I’LL BLOW EVERYONE UP RIGHT NOW!’
Covarra stopped. His eyes glittered with rage and hate.
‘It won’t work,’ Salazar said. ‘He’s taped it to the switch. It will stay in that position even if we kill him. He’s bluffing.’
‘Shoot me and see what happens.’ Cutter laughed scornfully. ‘The tape’s not tight. The switch will activate at the slightest change in pressure. But have you seen this?’ He pointed to a fabric sensor attached to his wrist, from which wires ran to the suicide vest. ‘That will detect my pulse. The moment I stop breathing, the belt goes off. It’s a backup trigger.’
Voices burst out in anger and panic.
‘STOP!’ Covarra yelled.
His men stopped talking.
‘What do you want?’ the gang leader asked coldly, having regained control of himself.
‘I’ve told you a few times. Who killed the women in Beverly Hills? Who ordered the hit?’
‘I told you on Sadler Avenue when you asked.’ The gangster’s voice dropped. ‘That was you on the bike, wasn’t it? I DIDN’T KILL THEM.’
‘Your AR-15s, the ones you and Salazar used, were traced to the scene. One of those guns’ rounds were in the women.’
‘I DIDN’T KILL THEM. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT.’
‘If you didn’t, then who? Which of your men—’
‘HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU. NONE OF MY MEN WERE THERE.’ Spittle flew out of Covarra’s mouth and showered Salazar, who ignored it.
‘Street Front and Armenian Bros had a shootout at that house,’ Cutter argued. ‘Cops know that.’
‘Si,’ the Street Front leader replied savagely, ‘my men found them dealing there. They attacked, but there were too many of those putos. My people escaped, but they got away as well.’
As Cutter stared at him, he tried to see past the hatred in Covarra’s eyes. ‘You could have called me and told me all this.’
‘No,’ the gangster smiled evilly. ‘I wanted to see you. I wanted to grab your neck and plunge my knife in you. I wanted you to know what happens when you attack Francisco Covarra. They call me Snake because of my bite. I wanted you to feel it. Look at you.’ He laughed scornfully. ‘You look like a terrorist with those bombs. Police are hunting you like a dog. You did all this over two bitch—’
The roaring filled Cutter’s ears as the warehouse faded, and all that remained was the gangster’s sneering face and laugh. He charged forward without conscious thought, covered the distance separating them so quickly that none of the thugs could react. He bodyslammed into the Front’s leader and sent him sprawling to the floor. He held his left hand high, dimly aware that he had to keep the trigger intact as he repeatedly headbutted Covarra, breaking his nose, splitting his lips, as he growled in rage.
‘GET HIM!’ someone shouted.
He was bodily lifted and separated from the gangster. Someone hit him in the side, a wicked blow that stung. Another banger kicked him in the thigh, where his wound was. He heard Covarra yelling, and then the leader was in front of him, punching him repeatedly in the neck and legs while his men held him.
‘Hold that trigger hand.’ ‘Don’t let it drop.’ ‘Be careful.’ ‘Don’t let the tape fall off.’ ‘Don’t hit the explosives.’ ‘Don’t let him die.’
The phrases merged into a stream of sound, joined by the gangster’s cursing as he slammed his fists into his prisoner.
‘BOSS!’
The loud shout stopped everyone.
Cutter fell to his knees when the bangers holding him released their grip. He blinked away his sweat and raised his head slowly.
Two men had entered the warehouse. One was a thug who had jammed his gun into the other’s side.
‘I found him at the back, boss. He was trying to look through an opening.’ The banger smiled triumphantly. ‘He came down the street, hiding in the shadows. He thought he wasn’t noticed, but I saw him a long way away.’
‘Was he alone?’ Covarra asked sharply as he gestured for the hood to come forward.
Cutter licked his lips and shook his head to get himself to focus on the here and the now. To ignore the pounding his body had taken and the agony that filled him.
He didn’t recognize the prisoner.
‘Yes, boss. I got several men to check out Rio and Jesse. No one else was with him.’
‘Did you search him?’
‘No, boss. I brought him here as soon as I found him.’
‘SEARCH HIM, THEN. DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU EVERYTHING?’
The banger slung his rifle back and patted his captive down. Found a gun in a waist holster and tossed it to the floor. He searched his pockets, threw his phone to the floor and came out with a wallet. Riffled through it and froze.
‘BOSS!’ he yelled.
‘What?’ Covarra ground his teeth. ‘I’m right here.’
‘HE’S A COP. THIS IS HIS CARD.’
The gang leader went to him and snatched the identification. Read it and compared the photograph to the prisoner. ‘Matt Lasko. Detective,’ he snarled and slapped
his man across the face. ‘YOU BROUGHT A COP HERE.’
‘I didn’t know—’
‘YOU ACCUSE ME OF KILLING THOSE BEVERLY HILLS WOMEN.’
Covarra hit him.
‘YOU TALK ABOUT MY AND FUSE’S RIFLES FOUND THERE—’
‘Their rounds were found—’ Cutter groaned when another punch landed in his belly.
‘AND THEN YOU BRING THE COPS HERE! I TOLD YOU TO COME ALONE.’
‘I don’t know anything about him.’
‘STOP TALKING.’ Covarra hit him repeatedly in the chest and stomach and sent him sprawling to the floor. Covarra breathed noisily as he paced the floor.
Cutter gritted his teeth and got to his knees. He tried to get up all the way but was shoved back by a banger. He met the cop’s eyes, whose lips moved.
Is he trying to say something?
His body throbbed from the beating he had taken. Breathing was difficult. He knew his thigh wound had opened up again from the blows. He forced himself to ignore all that and focused on Lasko’s lips.
I am alone. Didn’t get to call in.
Cutter met his eyes in shock.
Why the hell did he come on his own? Why didn’t he get backup?
His thoughts were interrupted by Covarra’s grunt.
‘He can’t be alone,’ the gangster raged. ‘Cops don’t come to our places on their own. We’ve got to get away. I wanted to kill Grogan, slowly, I wanted to see his eyes dim …’ He grabbed Cutter’s hair and raised his head. ‘But I know what to do. I will destroy your life.’
And with that he rushed to where his Glock lay on the floor, raised it and shot three times in Lasko’s chest.
‘NO!’ Cutter screamed and scrabbled forward. He fell to the side when someone kicked him in the side and passed out.
* * *
He returned to consciousness to the smell of dirt and the feel of the cold floor on his cheek. He snapped his head up when awareness flooded him and groaned at the sudden movement.
He was alone.
No, he wasn’t.
Lasko lay several feet away.
Cutter dove at him, ignoring the sudden stabbing pain in his body.
The detective’s eyes were open. Glazed and dull. They flickered slowly when he came into view.
‘Hold on,’ he urged. ‘I’ll call for help.’ He searched the floor and dived to the phone. Lunged back and unlocked the device with Lasko’s forefinger and dialed 911.
‘A COP’S BEEN SHOT ON RIO STREET,’ he said, having the presence of mind to disguise his voice. ‘HE’S IN CRITICAL CONDITION. HURRY.’
He hung up and checked out Lasko quickly. His chest wounds looked ugly. His face had turned pale and the light in his eyes was fading.
‘Hang on,’ he told the cop. ‘EMTs will be here soon.’
The detective seemed to hear him and his hand moved as if to beckon.
‘Yeah? What is it?’
‘Go …’ the word came out slowly, drawn out.
‘Nope, I’ll be right here, buddy.’
‘Your … gun … your … prints.’
Cutter froze at that. Scanned the floor and didn’t find his Glock, but his right-hand glove lay several feet away. He went to it, pocketed it and returned to the cop. ‘Covarra got me to hold it? When I was out?’
‘Yes … go …’
‘I won’t.’
Lasko’s eyes blazed momentarily. His hand twitched, grabbed Cutter’s and squeezed with all his strength. ‘GO,’ he whispered harshly. ‘Phone …’ his head rolled back and his breath started to fade. ‘Cesar …’
‘Lasko.’ Cutter crouched over him urgently. ‘LASKO!’ the detective’s head rolled limply and the light in his eyes faded even as he watched.
‘No!’ he swore. He held his cheek against the man’s face and felt a whisper of breath. Heard a siren wailing in the distance.
Cesar. What did he mean by that?
He grabbed the detective’s cell phone nevertheless, placed his forefinger against it to unlock it, changed the password and slipped it into his pocket. Got to his feet unsteadily, removed his jacket and draped it over Lasko’s chest.
He stood over the cop, torn, as the sirens grew closer. The detective seemed to be barely alive. Would it help if I stayed with him till the first responders arrived?
I’m already the prime suspect for the attacks on Covarra. Cops will arrest me even if they believe I didn’t shoot Lasko.
He made his mind up and staggered out of the warehouse and into the night, conscious that everything had changed.
Covarra had outsmarted him.
He has my Glock, and if he delivers it to the LAPD somehow, I’ll be wanted.
Every cop in Los Angeles will be hunting me.
60
Cutter almost blacked out as he stumbled his way to his ride. He leaned against a wall, behind a refrigerated truck, and drew breath hoarsely as the darkness faded in his mind.
Cops and EMTs had arrived at the warehouse, judging by the volume of sirens and the voices that carried in the night. Thankfully, no officers had come his way.
Not yet.
He gritted his teeth, resumed his half-trot and reached the Durango. Fired it up and hoped the sound wouldn’t be heard by the cops.
He drove out with his lights turned off, went down to Fourth Street, where he hung a left, and crossed the river. He drove past the Fashion District and turned into a store’s parking lot and stopped. He removed the tape on his thumb and shrugged out of the suicide vest.
He hadn’t rigged it to blow. The explosives were real, as were the Dead Man Switch and the Pulse Trigger. However, he had wired them only for show. He had been counting on Covarra not having any explosives expert with him. On being fooled by the appearance of the vest.
I was right about that.
The thought gave him no consolation.
‘I need help,’ he said when he called Kozlov.
‘Come over. I’m still up, writing up some notes.’
‘It’s not that straightforward. LAPD wants me. I am a suspect in a shooting.’
He prayed it wasn’t a killing, that Lasko had survived. He’ll be able to tell what went down and he’ll clear me. If he lives.
‘Come over.’ There was no change in Kozlov’s voice.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Cutter raged at him. ‘Do you want to get involved—’
‘I got involved the day you flew me out of Moscow.’
‘You were alone, then. You have a family now.’
‘You think Marta doesn’t know what you used to do?’ Kozlov snorted. ‘Or that I don’t help you or the other operators? There are no secrets between us. She would open me up with a scalpel, without anesthesia, if she knew I turned you away.’
‘Cops—’
‘Screw them,’ Kozlov said dismissively. ‘Come over. Right now.’ His voice grew concerned. ‘Can you drive?’
‘Yeah, I can manage that much.’
* * *
Kozlov was waiting for him when he rolled up in their driveway. The Russian helped him get inside his operating room and to the bed.
‘Have you thought of changing professions?’ he asked as he snipped Cutter’s clothing and examined his wounds. ‘Accounting. That’s a good one. Ever heard of an accountant getting beaten up as regularly as you do?’
Cutter groaned when his friend jabbed him in the thigh, near his wound. ‘What happened to tender, loving care?’ he gasped.
‘That’s only for my paying customers.’
* * *
‘You’ll live. You’ll even walk.’ Kozlov washed his hands an hour later. ‘Your body … it can take a lot of punishment. That’s why you have gotten away with just bruises, sore ribs and some cuts. That gunshot wound has opened again, but I’ve tended to it.’
‘I need to be mobile,’ Cutter warned him. ‘I can’t limp.’
‘Painkillers in there,’ his friend replied, nodding at medications wrapped in a baggie. ‘But rest is what you need. Not going about wha
tever you are intent on doing.’
Cutter reached for the fresh set of clothing on a chair and dressed. His body hurt all over, but it was a dull throbbing that he could push to the recesses of his mind.
‘There’s news of something that went down in Boyle Heights,’ Kozlov said casually. ‘An officer was found shot.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘I turned off the news.’ The Russian cocked his head at a small TV set. ‘Shall I switch that on?’
‘No.’
He hugged his friend hard and limped to the door. Climbed into the Durango and drove out.
Kozlov grew smaller in his rearview mirror and then disappeared when he turned into the street.
That might be the last time I see him.
* * *
Cutter rolled down the window and let the night air blow in, along with the sounds and smells of LA. It wasn’t midnight yet and the traffic was still heavy. He drove to the house where Arnedra and Vienna were killed, on a whim.
A few traffic cones and police tape were still in place, but no cruisers on the street. He drove past without slowing and stopping, didn’t see any patrol cars in any neighboring driveways, but decided not to risk going into the house. What would it achieve? He thought bitterly.
He went past the studios and entered the north-western part of the city. Reseda and Northridge, beyond. He rented a house in Sylmar via a booking app, backed into its driveway and changed the plates under the cover of darkness.
He staggered into the residence with all his belongings, locked it and threw himself on the bed.
The world could wait.
He needed rest.
61
Difiore got the call at eleven-forty-five pm. A terse exchange with Dade that had her rolling out of bed, hustling into her suit. Quindica, who had overheard, was ready before she had finished.
‘What happened?’ her partner asked.
‘Shooting in Boyle Heights,’ she replied. She paused a beat, trying to find the right words, and then shrugged. There was no easy way to say it. ‘Lasko’s been shot.’
