by Hunt, Jack
It was strange to be among them, running with the wolves. It should have felt normal and yet it was far from it.
Much had changed in two years away from gang life.
Rumor had that Chepe, the previous leader of 18th Street, had been taken out by a rival gang member in a drive-by shooting. While another gang had claimed they were responsible, those in the know said that Alvaro was behind it. It made sense; he would have been the first to benefit. The only thing standing between him and running the ship was a man twenty years his senior. Those at the top rarely stepped aside unless they were shot or jailed and even then he’d known some to run a crew from the inside.
Chepe had been a close friend of Leo’s, someone who may not have been a good person but he understood fairness, and the true meaning of calmado, unlike Alvaro. Since taking the helm, Alvaro had discarded the old ways, the traditions passed from one member to another, and instead enforced his own rules, rules that changed on a whim depending on how he felt. Like a president choosing to go to war because they rolled out of bed on the wrong side, Alvaro was impulsive, bad news, bad for the gang, and bad for him. His rise to power couldn’t have come at a worse time.
Moving on to the next council member after killing the first, he continued his line of questioning. “Where is he?”
The woman babbled, spilling words as fast as she could. “He lives at the end of Hidden Valley Drive, a few minutes from here,” she said as Ramiro wiped blood from the blade on the woman’s shirt.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
He chose not to kill her. Why? To be perceived as unpredictable.
As they exited the room in City Hall, they left behind a trail of blood — one dead security guard and one council member. The two remaining council members have given the name of the mayor and told them he hadn’t been seen in over a week.
“Ramiro,” Leo said pulling him aside, another attempt at persuading him to see the lunacy of this. “Why does this guy matter? We are facing unprecedented times. The country is in ruin. Surely even you can see there is no purpose to this mission.”
“Are you seriously asking me that? If we let some homie shoot up our crew, what happens next, huh?”
He turned to walk away, ignoring him.
“I knew your brother Rudy,” Leo said. Ramiro stopped and looked back at him. “He wouldn’t have wanted this for you. Did you know he was close to leaving 18th Street before he was shot?”
“Bullshit.”
“You think I would lie?”
Ramiro narrowed his eyes and slowly made his way back but not before telling the others to wait outside. As soon as the door closed he got up in Leo’s face, stabbing a finger against his chest. “I won’t have you undermine me in front of my men.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“You know what you’re doing,” he said, narrowing his gaze.
“Your brother wanted out. I’m telling you the truth. There are rumors that it was Alvaro who put the hit on him.”
Rage welled in his face, the vein in his neck pulsed hard as he brought up the knife to Leo. “I’m warning you.”
“Alvaro doesn’t need to know. We can say we found this Garcia guy and killed him. He won’t know any different.”
He snarled. “I will know.”
“Does it mean that much to you?” Leo turned his back knowing Ramiro could stab him but he had to believe his reputation, even though it was marred, had earned him some level of respect. “Rudy and I used to run the streets together. We worked our way up through the ranks. We have blood on our hands to show for it but he wanted out because of you. Did you know that?”
“I’m warning you, Leo.”
“Kill me then. I’m sure Alvaro would be pleased.” He glanced back at him with a smile, not wanting him to see fear.
Ramiro turned the knife in the air pointing at him. “I could kill you right now. Alvaro wouldn’t know the truth.”
“Then how’s what I’m suggesting any different?” Leo walked over to a window, feeling as though he finally had him, caught in his own words. He knew it was true, that’s why he was still listening. Before leaving L.A., Alvaro had ordered at least two of his guys to watch over Leo to ensure that he didn’t try to run. As if he would do that? Although Leo hated calmado, it had given him the ability to walk away from the gangs without being murdered. He could have run but he didn’t. To disrespect that rule would have been to disrespect 18th Street, Chepe and all that it stood for. “Who is this Garcia to you?” Leo asked.
“An enemy.”
“No, he’s just another face, homie, nothing more than blood on your hands.”
“It won’t be my hands but yours.”
Leo glanced at the dead councilman. “Rudy never wanted this life for you. He wanted something better.”
Ramiro laughed. “What, like the church? Huh? Is that better? Praying to a God that doesn’t intervene?”
“Maybe he’s intervening now.”
His features screwed up as he closed the distance between them, tapping the knife against his head. “I know what you’re trying to do, Leo. Trying to get in my head. But I won’t let you. You hear me?”
“Look at the way Alvaro treats me, someone who at one time was Chepe’s right-hand man. Do you think he will treat you any different, homie?”
He knew why Ramiro was following Alvaro’s orders. It had little to do with loyalty and everything to do with power. Ramiro was like most foot soldiers, they craved the prestige that came with rising through the ranks, having others at their beck and call. No one wanted to be a lookout, a seller or even a triggerman, they wanted to be top dog and call the shots. That required praising the one on the throne until they could figure out a way to take it from them. “I’m telling you the truth. Rudy didn’t want this for you.”
He sneered. “You lie.”
“Do I? Ramiro, you desire the very thing I had. Ask yourself. If it was so great, why would I walk away from it all?” With that said Leo let his words linger as he walked out of the room.
He was getting the hell out of town while he was still alive. When word reached Ken Fischer of gangs fighting in the streets, drive-by shootings and eventually the downfall of the Petaluma Police Department, he took that as a red flag to get out of Dodge. Sure, there were still cops out there doing their job, holding on to some slim hope that life would be the same, but not him. Oh, he was smarter than that. He wasn’t sticking around to watch the curtain close. No, get out now and don’t look back.
He’d told his wife, Colleen, to pack while he collected some valuables from the storage locker, mostly silver and gold that he’d kept outside of the home in a safe. Right now cash still had some value but eventually it would only be good for wiping your ass. Still, he wasn’t taking any chances. He glanced over his shoulder, nervous every time he heard a gunshot. Had anyone seen him enter the self-storage facility? Colleen told him he was crazy to keep valuables outside the house but she soon changed her tune when they had a break-in a year ago while on vacation. They’d taken the TV, computers, and torn the place apart. No one would think to break into a self-storage facility as most of the crap people stored in there was furniture.
Nope. Not him. He’d installed a high-tech safe, and jammed it with gold, silver, a few thousand dollars and his wife’s most expensive jewelry. Even as he tucked it all into a duffel bag and zipped it up, he couldn’t help but toot his own horn in his mind. How many others would have been this smart?
He thought about the rest of the council members — idiots. All that talk about community spirit. What a crock of bullshit. It was every man for himself. Sure, at first he put on a big show and pretended to care for the people of Petaluma but once that twit Garcia waltzed into the room, spouting off about the gangs, he knew their time was numbered. In many ways he had him to thank for the heads-up. Had he not said anything, there was a good chance he could still be there, sitting around that table, listening to the boring crap coming out of Agatha’s mou
th. We need to assist emergency management. We need to discuss ways to help the elderly. We need to… Blah, blah, blah. Who cares? Not I, he thought as he slung the heavy duffel bag over his shoulder, and went to his truck and loaded it in the passenger side. He returned to the locker and collected several boxes of canned food he’d taken from the food drive the police had run a month ago. It was meant to go to the food bank in the community and it did, barring six boxes which he’d taken. What? He was the community. Didn’t he deserve to have a little slice off the top? After all the shit he had to put up with, especially Officer Garcia. Who in their right mind hires an ex-gang member? He’d fought to get him fired a few months back but the chief refused to listen.
He adds value.
It offers diversity.
Oh he was so sick and tired of hearing that putrid bull crap.
It only existed to appease the masses, to keep the social justice warriors at bay. He shook his head as he loaded another box into his top-of-the-line 4 x 4 Titan truck, a beauty that the city had paid for with their hard-earned money. He’d embezzled almost a million from the city over the past three years. No one had noticed because he’d opened a secret bank account and named it the Sewer Capital Development Account and made it look like it belonged to the city. With him as the only signatory, he’d created an elaborate way of having money deposited into one account, then creating false invoices, and writing checks that were payable to the treasurer which of course was him, and the money ended up inside his new account. It was beautiful to see it growing like wildfire right under their noses.
He’d even given some spiel at the council meeting about not having a large enough budget to pay for this or that, after that meeting, the money train kept rolling.
Now of course, for a brief while he thought someone would catch on but they didn’t. They were too busy listening to Agatha’s crap or buying into all the social diversity nonsense to be worried about what the left hand was giving to the right. Two more years and he would have had quite the nest egg.
He chuckled at the thought as he brought another case of food to his truck. The only downside was he hadn’t managed to retrieve the money. Right now it was sitting in his account, nothing but digits on a computer. No ATMs were working so he couldn’t get it out but he figured, give it six months, maybe a year at the most of hiding in his cabin and the government would get the power grid back up. As soon as they did he would sweep in and empty that account, then it was bye-bye Petaluma and hello Margaritaville.
He brought the shutter down on the eight by ten storage locker feeling proud of his ability to stay ahead of the curve. Seventy-two hours from now he would be sitting in a recliner, inside his cozy cabin north of Santa Rosa, drinking a brew and thinking about all these idiots running around the city trying to survive.
All those banners — Support Your Community.
Ah, fuck the community.
It didn’t take long to return to his two-story home on Hidden Valley Drive. His house was one of only a few in the cul-de-sac. The truck bounced up into the driveway and rumbled as the engine idled. He jabbed the horn twice to let Colleen know that he was home and to get her ass in gear. With music playing lightly through the speakers, his fingers drummed against the steering wheel as he whistled and thought of ways he would kill time at the cabin. Fishing, and maybe he could do a little work on the 1933 Ford Roadster he’d bought two years ago. It was meant to be a side project, a reason to get out of doing work around the cabin. Ken lifted his eyes at the house. Where was that woman?
The horn blared as he placed his hand against it, this time holding it there for longer. “Come on!” If he had to go in, there would be trouble.
Another two minutes passed.
He huffed as he leaned out the window and yelled. “Colleen. C’mon, honey. We need to get going.”
There was no response. She was probably doing her hair, or deciding which outfit to take. She was lucky there were any outfits. One street over had been hit so bad that many of the homes were nothing more than rubble. He honked the horn again before lighting a cigarette. He blew smoke out the corner of his mouth and narrowed his gaze. He glanced down the street.
Were they on to him?
No. No one knew he was leaving town. He’d made damn sure of that. He didn’t want to answer questions. Oh, why are you leaving? Who will make decisions? Shouldn’t you stay until the ship goes down?
No. No, and no!
He cursed under his breath as he got out and trudged up the driveway and opened the front door. “Colleen, come on. I said we were leaving by five. You know I don’t like to wait.”
He turned into the living room and the cigarette fell from his lips.
7
Forest City Surplus was a survivalist’s wet dream.
Floor to ceiling shelves, clothing racks throughout, all of it stocked with essential camping gear, backpacks, tents, survival supplies, Airsoft rifles, electronics and military surplus, most of it modern, a few items dating back to the ’50s. Elisha passed by a glass counter and gazed inside at countless gleaming knives of different sizes. Her eyes drifted to the wall behind which had a rack of swords and crossbows. “Sweet mother of Abraham. How on earth have you managed to keep this place under wraps?”
Harry snorted as he went behind the counter and took a seat on a stool. “Look, but don’t touch. Not unless you’ve got the green and right now every item you see is worth three times the number you see on that red ticket.”
“Grandfather,” Travis scolded, walking close to Elisha and placing a hand on her shoulder. “If you see anything you want just let me know. I’m sure we can make it happen.”
Harry leaned forward, removing the thick four-inch cigar from his lips. “Boy, are you hard of hearing?”
“No, but your memory isn’t doing too well. I’ve worked up quite the tab in this place.”
“Worked? When?”
Travis leaned against the counter, tapping it with his finger. “For the umpteenth time. I have been working for you for over three years. Some of which I might add I haven’t been paid for. Remember those summer months?” He paused expecting Harry to reply but he didn’t. “Of course not, ugh! Once this world goes back to the way it was, I’m getting you checked for Alzheimer’s.”
“Hey!” Harry pointed his finger at him and Travis grinned. He turned to Garcia who’d picked up an emergency hand-crank radio which also operated using solar power which charged batteries. “So what department are you from?” Harry asked.
“Petaluma.” Garcia turned over the unit.
“Shouldn’t you be there — you know, protecting?”
“Maybe.”
“Sounds like you’ve lost faith.”
“Not sure I had it to begin with,” he said, setting the radio down then turning to him. “We got hit hard by the bombs, and then La Primera became a thorn in our side. Killed a lot of good people.”
“But you managed to survive. Convenient.”
Garcia’s brow wrinkled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Look in the mirror.”
“Grandfather,” Travis barked. Harry scowled and got off his stool and walked away as Travis continued. “You’ll have to forgive him. My grandmother was murdered in the first week. Some asshole carjacked her. They shot her and left her for dead. Someone saw it and said the one responsible looked—”
“Like me?” Garcia interjected.
Travis nodded. “They managed to get her to the hospital but she only lasted a day. Understandably he was torn up about it and that’s when he shut the store down. He hasn’t been himself since. Myself, Tate and Joe here were out there looking for the one responsible. The witness said he had a tattoo with the number fourteen.”
“Like this?” Garcia asked. He rolled up his sleeve and showed him the rest of a partially hidden XIV. Travis squinted and got closer before nodding. Garcia exchanged a glance with Andre and they immediately knew he was referring to a Norteño gang member. They were the only
ones who had that tattoo. Fourteen represented the fourteenth letter of the alphabet which was N. It was their way of paying homage to Nuestra Familia. His thoughts returned to Marco, and Santa Rosa. For the most part gang members from there didn’t make their way north unless they were conducting business, collecting guns or drugs, and none of that was happening right now. Stepping out of gang territory could mean death if they weren’t careful. “This witness. Did they only see one of them?”
“No, there were at least four,” Travis replied.
“That’s who we think are responsible for the raid on the police department,” Tate said, removing his baseball cap and running his hand through his shaggy blond hair. “When we saw you guys, well…”
Garcia nodded. It made sense.
Just when they thought it would be safe to head out of Petaluma, they walk into this. He knew heading back to Santa Rosa and asking Marco would be of no benefit, especially after the warning. “You still think they’re here?” Garcia asked.
Both of the guys shrugged. “Possibly. Graffiti has shown up.”
Were they responsible for the break-in at Theo’s? If they were, the question was why? An hour and a half north of Santa Rosa was a long way to travel unless they had a reason.
Garcia continued to browse, sifting through camo jackets.
After everything he’d gone through in Petaluma, the thought of facing more trouble didn’t appeal to him, especially if it meant going up against an old friend of his. There would be no coming back from something like that. Although he’d turned his back on the gang, he couldn’t help but still feel a close association with them. Norteños were his roots, his tradition. In many ways they’d made him who he was today.
