“Anyway,” Ramirez says, returning her grip to the bag, “I wasn’t sure if I should say anything, but there’s a couple of guys that have been hanging around by the playground there a lot lately.
“And I mean, a lot.”
Releasing his grip on the edge of the door, Lima folds his arms. He feels his gaze narrow slightly, his interest officially piqued.
“What kind of guys?”
“Two of them,” the woman says. “Young guys, younger than you but older than high school.”
Putting them somewhere in their twenties, the prime demographic for drug dealers in the city.
“What have they been doing?” Lima asks.
“It’s not so much what they’re doing, it’s that they’re always there,” Ramirez replies. “In the afternoon when school lets out. On the weekends when kids are out on the ball fields playing.”
Lima can sense a bit of movement behind him. Even without looking, he knows Bocco is nearby, taking in every word.
“And they just sit there?” Lima asks.
“Sort of,” Ramirez replies. “They have this old brown Eldorado they’re always leaning against or hanging out in with the doors open.”
“Do they ever approach the kids?”
A vertical line appears between the woman’s brows as she contemplates the answer for a moment.
“No, they don’t go up to them, but I’ve seen them call kids over a few times. Or stop them as they’re walking by.”
Pausing, she ponders it for another moment, before adding, “I called the police, but they said there’s nothing wrong with them being parked on a public road. I’ve never seen them do anything aggressive or harm any of the kids, but I don’t know.
“It just seems a little odd, them there all the time. Does that make sense?”
A floorboard creaks behind Lima, the first actual sign that Bocco is nearby. On the couches sit two more of their friends, both no doubt taking in every word as well.
All thinking exactly what he is.
“Yeah, it does,” Lima replies. “And I agree. Seems quite odd.”
Chapter Twenty
I’m alone in the front seat of the Explorer. My sister is sprawled across the back seat, her body barely reaching from one end to the other. Lying on her left hip, her right side is pointed toward the ceiling. The spot of blood on her shirt has grown from a softball into a Frisbee, the thin material bright red, matted to her skin.
Breathing is shallow, audible even from where I sit, her chest rising and falling in quick bursts.
The source of her pain can just barely be seen protruding from her lower back in the rearview mirror.
A shard of the splintered nightstand that she and the bastard she was tangled up with went through and extends from her side. More than four inches stick out from what I can see, an unknown amount still lodged beneath the skin.
Given the location and her reaction, I can tell it’s deep. Too deep for me to try to wrench free on my own.
What little anatomy I know about the area hints that there’s a decent chance it might have hit a kidney.
The battlefield trauma care I’ve picked up over time says when dealing with something like that, the best thing to do is just leave it there. Especially when a major organ is involved.
Sitting on the passenger side of the back seat is her daughter. I know her name to be Amber. I have seen dozens of photos of her over the years.
But we have never met.
On purpose.
Ten years of age, she is pressed closely against the far door, pushing on it so hard I have to make sure it is locked to keep her from spilling out onto the freeway. With the same terrible bottle job and haircut as my sister, her gaze never leaves her mother.
A move no doubt of equal parts concern for her well-being and a steadfast refusal to meet my gaze in the rearview mirror.
Smart kid.
Stepping out of that bathroom, seeing what she did, she has every right to be petrified of me. To still be working through the shock. To be scared shitless something is going to happen to her mother to leave her stuck under my care.
Not that such an eventuality sounds a hell of a lot better to me either.
“Ames, you with me back there?” I ask, lifting my chin and raising my voice.
Her breathing increases slightly and she prepares herself for a response, eventually pushing out, “All good.”
Immediately, she falls silent save the panting.
She doesn’t have much time.
The very last thing in the world I want to do right now is call in a favor. Less than an hour after leaving his place, asking for more help already is a bad look. In every way.
But I don’t have much choice. I’m in a car that may or may not be tagged with a woman in dire need of care.
And I just kicked the crap out of one cop and shot another.
Been an eventful start.
“I’m going to make a call,” I say, as much for myself as the two women in the back seat. Reaching into the center console, I grab up the cell phone and enter the direct line I was given this morning, ignoring the California laws about hands-free devices and pressing it to my ear.
Mikey isn’t exactly the kind of guy to censor himself.
Amber has seen and heard enough for one morning.
Putting the Explorer into the middle lane of traffic, I set the cruise control at three miles above the speed limit as the phone begins to ring.
A moment later it is picked up, not a word from the other end.
Standard procedure from Mikey on a number he doesn’t recognize.
“Ham,” I say. “911.”
It takes less than a second for him to respond. “Bad pickup, I take it.”
“Worst ever,” I reply. “Dirty cops.”
To that, Mikey says nothing. This is Los Angeles, and we’ve both been doing this a long time. Very, very little surprises us anymore.
“Casualties?”
“Two down,” I reply. “One hand-to-hand, one GSW. Both will live.”
Mikey grunts. I know he isn’t taking notes, would never put this sort of thing in writing to cover his own ass as much as mine, but I get the impression he is committing every word I say to memory.
“Location?” he asks. Every question is short and terse. Gone is the jokester from the night before or the cocksure arrogance of the man in the garage.
Another remnant from his time in the military. Off the job, keep things as light as possible. Once things start, leave all of that behind.
I prefer to stay on all the time, but I can understand the reasoning.
“Moving north out of West Covina,” I reply. “Coming up on the 210.”
“Situation?”
Letting out a sigh, I again flick a glance to the back seat. My sister’s eyes are screwed down tight, her skin pale, damp with sweat. Her teeth are clenched, pain obvious.
“Package was severely injured upon arrival. Extracted but needs immediate medical attention. Don’t think they got a look at the car, but I don’t know that for sure.”
Saying nothing more, I glance over the signage stretched above the road. In a couple of miles, a pair of interstates will present themselves, allowing me to head in any direction.
Ultimately, the plan is to head north, but right now we have much more pressing matters.
“When you get to the 210, go west and pick up the 39 North,” Mikey says, slowing his cadence to make himself clear. “It’s a winding mountain road and a real pain in the ass.”
He stops short of finishing the thought, which is that at least it will get me off the freeway. Hell of a lot fewer people and cameras and roving highway patrol to contend with.
A winding road will suck ass, especially with Amy in the condition she’s in, but he’s right.
It beats the alternative.
“In the bottom of your goodie bag in the back is a set of replacement plates. When you get up in the mountains, find a pull-off and make the switch.”
And I highly doubt The Sundowner is the type of joint to have cameras on-site.
Getting into the mountains and changing the plates will make us invisible for the next couple of hours. Buy us enough time to get Amy looked at and put together a working plan.
“When that dead-ends, pick up the 2 East, work your way over to Victorville,” Mikey says. “I’ll be in contact before you arrive with details.”
Most anybody else, and I might press on what exactly that means.
Like I said, Mikey isn’t a friend. But he is a colleague.
And a damned good operator.
Trust and friendship don’t always have to go hand in hand.
“Roger that. Out.”
“Out,” he replies, both of us hanging up without another word.
Chapter Twenty-One
Even with the double shot of morphine in his system, Jensen Spiers can feel the throbbing in his nose. With each beat of his heart, he can sense blood pushing through the area, feeling as if it might pulse straight through the shattered bone and drip down his chin.
A fate he can’t help but feel like he probably deserves at the moment. Sitting on the edge of the hospital bed at West Covina General, his face aches. The light is too bright, feeling like it is searing directly into his skull.
Somewhere down the hall, his partner is in surgery, his blood still staining Spiers’s fingers.
All a culmination of the worst week of his career, if not his life.
One stupid decision by his wife compounded by a handful of overreactions on his part.
And a shitshow confluence of bad luck and timing by just about every other thing possible.
Through the morphine haze, Spiers sits and tries to make sense of what happened. How he went from being on top of his wife, about to get what he needed, to being tossed through a table. Pistol-whipped. Waking up to find his partner shot and the three females gone.
He hasn’t a clue who the third woman was. He’d like to say he could at least identify her if given the chance, but between the drugs and the frenetic pace of the encounter, all he can say for certain is she has sandy-blond hair that was shaved tight on the sides.
Maybe mid-thirties. Super tan.
So basically, one of about a hundred thousand in Los Angeles County alone.
Rifling through the events of the morning, Spiers is only vaguely aware as a few feet away a doctor with a trimmed beard and heavy bags under his eyes stands with his arms crossed. Appearing to be on the back end of an all-night shift, he is dressed in wrinkled scrubs and a stained white coat.
Studying a pair of X-rays Spiers can barely remember sitting for, he mercifully flicks off the halogen lights illuminating them and turns to look at his patient.
“Looks like you took one hellacious shot from somebody.”
The man isn’t trying to be a dick, but Spiers can’t quite tamp down the urge to punch him anyway.
Or punch anybody for that matter.
“More than one, from what I can recall.”
“Yeah, the bones in there are quite a mess right now,” the doctor replies. Reaching out, he begins to flick the X-ray board on again.
“Don’t,” Spiers says, cutting him off. “Too damn bright.”
Pulling up with his hand just inches from the switch, the doctor nods.
“Right. Well, right now, the bridge of your nose is in about three different pieces. It’s going to need reconstructive surgery.”
Another layer on the shit sandwich that has become Spiers’s life.
“It can wait.”
His mouth open to continue his explanation, the doctor pauses. A deep groove forms between his eyes as he considers this before shaking his head slightly.
“No, it really can’t. The way it is right now, your septum is splintered, blocking most of your airway. This isn’t a cosmetic issue, it’s a functional one.”
Spiers hadn’t been thinking about cosmetics. He’d been thinking about getting up from this bed. Going out and figuring out who the bitch that hit him and shot his partner was.
Finding out where she took his wife.
What he looked like in the process, he didn’t much care.
“It can wait,” Spiers repeats. He tries to scowl as he says it, the movement pinching in around his brow and nose, a flare of agony running the length of his face.
Reaching up, he places his fingers against his forehead, the skin puffy and warm.
“And that’s the concussion,” the doctor says, his voice taking on the tone of admonishment. “Look, I don’t think you’re properly appreciating what happened to you this morning.
“The blow you received was quite severe. You’re going to have light sensitivity, headaches, maybe some memory loss—”
Spiers is no mood for a lecture. Pushing himself from the edge of the table, the white paper he’d been sitting on crinkles loudly, the sound like a jackhammer in his ears.
Taking a moment to steady himself, he extends a finger toward the doctor, his eyes pinched almost shut.
“No, you look. I don’t think you’re appreciating the fact that I am a lieutenant with the Los Angeles Police Department. That right now my partner is in surgery and the asshole that did all this,” he says, motioning to his face, “is still out there.”
Pausing, he makes sure his words have landed, watching the doctor’s face, seeing the blend of shock and fear on his features.
“Now, can you splint this damn thing up so I can go find them, or do I need to get some popsicle sticks and go do it myself?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
In a weird bit of irony, from the front, the place that Mikey set up for us looks a lot like my place out in the desert. A modular resting twenty yards back from a dirt road, the siding on it is striped white and mint green. Up on risers, the skirt stops a few inches from the ground, a single set of steps rising to the front.
Beside the house sits a newer Dodge Ram truck, the tires stock, the blue paint job appearing to be recently washed and waxed, despite the dust clinging to everything else nearby.
Waiting beside it is a man that could be anywhere from forty to sixty. All of the hair is gone from atop his head, the remaining ring shaved down to stubble. Same for the beginnings of a beard framing his jaw.
A few inches taller than me, he has the build of most former soldiers — thick arms and shoulders supported by a protruding stomach and spindly legs.
One elbow propped on the side of the truck bed, he is dressed in cutoff jeans, a sleeveless T-shirt, and crew socks pushed down to the tops of canvas boots.
If I were to encounter the man in Mexico, I would be able to ascertain everything I need to know about this man just from looking at him. Where he is from. How he now makes a living. Why he is likely down south of the border.
And I can promise, not once would the word doctor ever enter my mind.
“Stay here for a second,” I say, realizing even as the words are leaving my mouth how stupid they are.
Amy can’t really walk, and Amber is afraid of my voice.
They aren’t going anywhere.
Stepping out, I can feel that the temperature has risen almost twenty degrees since leaving West Covina. The noon sun has climbed directly overhead, warming my skin for the first time all day.
In the air, it smells like someone is grilling meat nearby.
“Ham?” the man asks, his voice betraying a slight drawl. Up closer, his cheeks are tinted red, his face damp with perspiration.
“Yup,” I reply, dipping my chin just slightly. “You with Mikey?”
“Yep,” the man says, lifting his arm away from the side of the truck to reveal his forearm. Etched into the skin is the tattoo of the Delta division, the ink as clear as the day it was applie
d. “Then and now.”
A tiny bit of the apprehension I felt pulling up peels back. Funny how one small detail can completely shift a perspective.
“Appreciate you doing this.”
“Haven’t done anything yet,” the man replies, pushing himself away from the side of the truck. Taking a step toward me, he adds, “In there?”
Maintaining my position, I turn as he makes an arc past me, heading for the rear driver’s door of the Explorer.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Shrapnel from the fight during extraction.”
I keep my description vague, even though there’s no need to. If this guy works with Mikey, he knows what we do.
Self-preservation can be a tough thing to turn off, though.
Reaching the rear door, he pulls it open, disappearing from view for a moment. Leaning in, I can hear the muted sound of voices before he pulls back and closes the door softly.
Small puffs of dust arise around his ankles as he walks back my way and says, “Best guess, she’s looking at a punctured kidney coupled with extreme blood loss.”
Raising a hand, he motions me toward the side of the house and adds, “Pull on around to the rear. I have a shop set up back there, can’t miss it.”
Taking a few steps more, he stops parallel to me and thrusts out his hand. Tapered down from the elbow, his forearm and wrist seem to be one long beef shank, a sheen of sweat visible on his skin.
“Call me Shag.”
How he got the name or what it refers to, I’d rather not speculate. He’s here doing me a solid, and that’s all I need to know.
“Shag,” I say, accepting his grip, his hand twice the size of mine. “How bad is it?”
“Won’t know until I get in there,” he replies, keeping my hand as he turns to glance over a shoulder. “But of the places to have a damn stake shoved into your torso, the kidneys are about the best.”
Releasing the grip, he asks, “She tough?”
“Strongest woman I know.”
Pausing, he studies me a moment, pondering the response, before one corner of his mouth curls back into a smile.
“We’ll get her fixed up for ya.”
Ham Page 8
