by Peter Nealen
“Nothing besides your normal personal kit,” Santelli replied. “Again, I’m not sure this is anything. We might just be sitting in a roach motel in the desert for a few days.”
“That close to the border, I think I’ll err on the side of caution,” Bianco said. “Just in case.” That got a sharper look from Jules; his job was nowhere near the border, but any mention of it was going to make his ears perk up. “I’ll see you in a couple days, then.”
“Sounds good, Vinnie. Out.” Santelli hung up, doubtless to go call the rest of the Blackhearts who weren’t already near Brannigan, at the hospital with Childress.
“What was that all about?” Jules asked. “What’s going on by the border?”
“Nothing,” Bianco replied. “Another friend’s in some legal trouble, that’s all. A few of us are going to go down and lend some support.”
Tommy had momentarily set aside the role of Dirk Slabarm. He sipped his Coke. “So, you’ve got one friend in the hospital, and another one halfway across the country in jail,” he said. “Sounds like you’re keeping some interesting company these days, Vinnie. You go back to contracting?”
“In a way,” Bianco evaded. He trusted all four of these guys, but not with that secret. What Brannigan’s Blackhearts did wasn’t exactly legal by any stretch of the imagination, and if it came out, he had little to no doubt that Mark Van Zandt and whatever shadowy side office of a shadowy government agency he worked for would disavow them in a heartbeat. “Can’t really talk about it. Lots of NDAs. You know how it is.”
Tommy shrugged. He would know. Tommy couldn’t talk about his contract, either. “If you need help, let me know,” he said. He looked down at his dice. “You gotta run now, or can we finish the game?”
Bianco looked pained. This wasn’t going to be pretty. But he couldn’t duck out of it. “Let’s finish the game,” he sighed.
Tommy grinned. “So what did Silovitz roll?”
Bianco shook his head. This was not going according to plan…
***
“Be gentle,” Rachel said.
Joe Flanagan looked up at the apartment building, his phone to his ear. “That depends on him,” he growled.
“Joe, honey,” Rachel said over the phone, “he’s your friend. I only know a fraction of what you two have been through together. Yes, he screwed up. He admitted it. Don’t let it come between you.”
Flanagan sighed. Lean, wiry, with an angular face partially hidden behind a thick beard so black it almost looked blue, he couldn’t keep his eyes from flashing at the memory of the last time he’d been to this apartment complex.
He’d nearly had to shoot a girl who’d been ready to stab his womanizing friend, Kevin Curtis, for dumping her.
“The more I bail him out, the longer this is going to go on,” he said. “He’s got to grow up. Maybe all the times I brushed it off only helped him stay the man-child he’s always been. There comes a point where a man’s just got to dust off his hands and say, ‘That’s it.’”
“You’re still working with him, though, aren’t you?” Rachel asked, with her relentless, gentle calm. “Talk to him, Joe. Sort this out.” She paused, and he closed his eyes as he could almost see her bite her lip. She knew more about what they did for a living than she would ever say, though she would never know details. She didn’t want to know details. She’d told him that, sitting in the dark in his truck, just being together, after the nightmare that had been the Tourmaline-Delta disaster. But she knew it was dangerous. She knew the risks.
That she wanted to be with him anyway was a source of continual wonder to him.
She waited, in silence. He knew she would, until he replied. She was patient that way. She could wear him down, and he knew it. Which had been a bit of a surprise. He’d always been the quiet one; it had been what had driven Mary away.
“I’ll try,” he finally said, as he opened the door.
“I love you,” she said.
He gulped. “I love you, too,” he said. I’m going to have to do something about that, sooner or later. Before I end up in a hole in the ground in some country where I wasn’t supposed to be, or paralyzed in a hospital like Sam.
Shoving the phone in his pocket, he slammed the truck door and started into the apartment complex, climbing the open staircase toward Kevin’s apartment. He still had his STI Tactical holstered under his jacket at his hip, though that had nothing to do, in general, with the altercation that had happened the last time he’d been there. Unless he was getting on a plane, Joe Flanagan didn’t leave his house without a gun.
There was no screaming coming from the other side of the door when he reached the apartment, which was a good sign. He hoped. Steeling himself, he knocked on the door.
He wasn’t ready for the buxom bleach-blond in the filmy negligée who answered the door.
“Hi,” she said breathily, holding the door about halfway open. “You must be Joe.”
Flanagan just sighed. He almost couldn’t get mad anymore. At least this chick wasn’t screaming, crying, and swinging a butcher knife around. “Yeah, that’s me. Is Kevin ready to go?”
Kevin Curtis appeared behind the blond’s shoulder. Unlike her, he was fully dressed, a tight-fitting white t-shirt accentuating the darkness of his skin and the size of his muscles. While almost a full head shorter than Flanagan, Curtis probably just about matched the rangy other man for weight, thanks to the two hours per day he put into the gym.
“Of course I’m ready, Joseph,” he said, gathering the blond in with a thick, ebony arm around her waist. She giggled as he kissed her. “I was born ready.” He patted the blond on the butt as he started out the door. “Lock up for me, will you, baby?” He started down the open-air hall toward the stairs, while Flanagan just stood there a moment, one eyebrow raised. When he saw that Flanagan wasn’t following, Curtis paused and turned back. “What?”
When Flanagan tilted his head toward the door as it clicked shut, Curtis laughed. “Believe it or not, Melody will do just that. We’ve done this dozens of times.”
“So, a semi-regular?” Flanagan asked dryly.
“Yep,” Curtis replied, as they started down the stairs.
“Hm,” was all Flanagan said to that. They reached the bottom of the steps and he pulled out his keys. “I thought you were seeing Sanda.”
Curtis didn’t stop, but there was a noticeable hitch in his step. “I’m trying to,” he said. “Girl like that takes time. And in the meantime, a man has needs.”
“Right,” Flanagan rumbled as he got behind the wheel. Curtis threw his small duffel in the bed and climbed in.
“You’re not still mad about whatshername?” Curtis asked.
Flanagan threw the truck into gear. “It was a coin toss as to whether I was going to walk into another domestic violence incident or not,” he said, pulling away from the curb. “Roger had to do some serious talking to convince me to come at all.” He glanced at his friend coolly. “That answer your question?”
“Look, Joe, I’m sorry about what happened, okay?” Curtis said, waving his hands. “I didn’t know she was going to turn out to be a psycho! It’s not like they’ve got neon lights on ‘em, or anything!” He slumped in his seat a little. Kevin Curtis was a man who found it hard to sit still, at least until he was in a fighting position, behind a machinegun. “I’ve been a little more careful since then.”
“’A little more careful,’ the man says,” Flanagan snorted.
“I am!” Curtis protested. He jerked a thumb back toward the apartments. “I needed a booty call, and I called Melody over instead of looking for some strange. Isn’t that being more careful?” He shook his head. “Not all of us can be hermits like you, Joe. Have you even banged Rachel yet?”
Flanagan glared at him. “I knew it!” Curtis shook his head, mock-sorrowfully. “I hope it means that you’re going to marry that chick, then, Joe, because otherwise this is just a waste.”
Flanagan’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. T
his was not the direction he wanted this conversation to be going.
The silence stretched, and Curtis started to fidget. “Look, I said I was sorry, all right? You’re my brother; I wouldn’t have deliberately put you in that situation if I’d known it would happen. I promise I’ll try not to let it happen again.”
Flanagan just grunted. Then he glanced over at Curtis with a narrowed eye.
“You know what it means if you start seeing Sanda, right?” he asked.
Curtis looked a little askance at him. “What?”
“Well,” Flanagan said, turning his gaze back to the road, “she was with us in Burma. Kinda makes her the team’s little sister.”
Curtis’ eyes widened a little. “Wait a minute, Joe…” he seemed to be looking for words, which, Flanagan reflected, was something of an event where Curtis was concerned. “Hell, Aziz was banging her!”
“And nobody really liked Aziz, either, did they?” Flanagan pointed out.
“Oh, come on!” Curtis had clearly gotten the message, and a little hint of a grin tugged at the corner of Flanagan’s mouth, slightly hidden by his beard.
“We’d hate to see her get hurt, now, wouldn’t we, Kevin?” Flanagan said relentlessly.
Curtis folded his arms and slumped against the door. “I never thought I’d see the day,” he said petulantly.
Flanagan did grin a little, then. He found he could breathe more easily, as if he’d finally put aside some of his anger at Curtis. He had a little hope for him, too. He knew that Curtis’ wildcat ways were eventually going to get him, or someone else, hurt or dead. His anger had been as much about Curtis’ irresponsibility and the harm he was doing himself as anything else.
But the fact that he hadn’t immediately sworn off his pursuit of Ma Sanda said something. I hope she’s the one for you, Kevin. Maybe she’ll finally get you to grow up.
But first, they had to see what had gotten Gomez in trouble, and get him out. That wiped the smile off his face.
Unlike Bianco, Flanagan remembered what Gomez had said at the meeting near Brannigan’s cabin when he’d finally showed up. And he’d picked up on the ominous note in the man’s voice when he’d spoken of trouble. Given the fact that they were heading for the Mexican border, while he hoped that it was just a matter of getting a brother out of legal trouble for defending himself, he was worried that it was going to get a lot more complicated than that.
Chapter 5
Roger Hancock, hatchet-faced and shaved bald as usual, was waiting in the privacy room when Gomez was brought in, wearing an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. He’d been on his best behavior in jail, but Thomas had kept him in cuffs whenever out of his cell. He’d fumed, silently, and hadn’t disguised his contempt when he’d stared at the deputy escorting him. The deputy, a younger man named Rodriguez, who’d probably been a freshman in high school when Gomez had been in Afghanistan, hadn’t been able to meet his gaze, and seemed ashamed.
You should be.
He’d expected some high-powered attorney sent by Van Zandt. But Hancock was alone except for the DA and Sheriff Thomas, who looked extremely put-out.
“Take the cuffs off,” Thomas said, irritably. The deputy nodded jerkily and hastened to do just that. Gomez stood stock-still while it happened, staring at Thomas.
A glance at Hancock had shown the other man looking rather satisfied with himself, so Gomez wondered just what was going on. Hancock knew what he was about; Gomez trusted that much. He’d just feel a bit better about the situation with his own lawyer present.
“Mr. Gomez,” the DA said, “I came down here myself to inform you that all charges are being dropped.” He glanced at Hancock, who was increasingly taking on the look of a cat who had swallowed a canary. “The security camera footage from the supermarket rather clearly shows that you acted in self-defense, and you seem to have rather influential friends who are more than interested in making sure that bit of evidence makes it to court, should criminal proceedings continue. So, you are not facing charges, and I hope that you’ll put this little bit of unpleasantness behind you.”
Gomez just stared at him. “I was arrested for defending myself, and told I was going to be put on trial for attempted murder,” he said flatly. His eyes were expressionless points of black.
The DA was not happy about this. That much was obvious. Thomas looked even angrier. He’d thrown his weight around, and now he was getting his hand slapped. And if Gomez brought wrongful arrest charges…
He was tempted, but he’d never been the kind who wanted to go running to the law. As long as he was free, and something was being done about his family’s murder…
He looked at Thomas. “Since I don’t have to worry about being wrongfully convicted, now I have to ask; what is being done about my family?”
The DA winced a little at that, and Thomas’ face went stony. “You leave law enforcement to the professionals, Gomez,” he warned. “I told you to stay out of it.”
“Seems like he’s just asking what’s being done, Sheriff,” Hancock said mildly. “After all, a quadruple homicide isn’t anything to sniff at.”
“What do you mean, quadruple?” the DA asked. He glanced at Thomas. “I thought there were only three bodies.”
Thomas’ face had gone gray. “There were,” he said hoarsely. “The investigation is ongoing. That’s all I can say.”
“We’re done here,” the DA said shortly, turning toward the door. “Mr. Gomez, you’re free to go, once the Sheriff has out-processed you.”
Gomez stared at Thomas, who didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, the sheriff waved at the hapless deputy who was still standing at Gomez’ elbow, mumbled something about taking care of the administrative details, and hastily followed the DA out.
***
Hancock didn’t say anything as Gomez was out-processed, getting his clothes, wallet, keys, and gun back. The pistol was unloaded, as were his magazines. When he asked about the ammunition, he just got a shrug, and the assurance that the bullets weren’t on his hand-receipt. With a snarl, he took his stuff and went into the changing room, coming out dressed and all but tossing the hastily-folded prison jumpsuit at the clerk.
“Easy, brother-man,” Hancock said as Gomez joined him and the two of them headed out into the parking lot. “You’re getting off scot-free, don’t spoil it.”
“I’m surprised it went that smoothly,” Gomez said, glancing venomously over his shoulder. “Thomas wants me locked in a box until this all goes away.”
“Speak of the devil,” Hancock said, following his gaze. Sheriff Thomas was coming out of the doors behind them, bearing down on them.
“What do you want, Sheriff?” Hancock asked, before Gomez could say anything.
Thomas pointed a meaty finger at Gomez. “I’m warning you again, Gomez,” he said. “Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be watching you. You set one toe out of line, and I’ll lock you up and throw away the key. And your high-powered lawyer friends won’t be able to help you, then.”
“That sounds an awful lot like a threat, Sheriff,” Hancock said. “I’d hate to have to get our lawyer involved in an investigation into law enforcement corruption, in addition to already having to come out here to get your scurrilous charges dropped.” Hancock might look like a knuckle-dragger, with the scars to go along with it, but he had a quick and active mind, and was often about two steps ahead of his own team. “Besides, shouldn’t you be more worried about whoever murdered my friend’s family than about what Mario might or might not do when some gang-banger pulls another knife on him?”
“You don’t know that it was murder,” Thomas snapped. “That’s inconclusive.”
“Oh, come on.” Hancock was starting to get riled. “Three bodies dumped in the desert, miles away from their house, and a missing person on top of it, but ‘it might have been an accident?’” He sneered. “Bullshit.”
Thomas was almost shaking with rage, staring daggers at both of them. “Don’t think I won’t toss both of you in jail if you g
et in the way,” he said thickly. “Interfering in a criminal investigation is a very serious crime.” He stuck his finger in Gomez’ face. “Stay out of it. Better yet, get out of this county until we have a conclusion. You’re just going to go off half-cocked again, and I’ll have to clean up after you.”
“Gentlemen, please,” another voice said, accompanied by the rap of boot heels on the concrete. “There’s no need for all this hostility.”
The man was short, and had a prodigious beer gut hanging over his belt buckle. He was dressed in jeans and a white-and-tan western sports coat, with snakeskin cowboy boots. His hair was going gray, though his mustache was still black.
“Sheriff, you’ve had a hard week, I understand that,” the man said. “But you can’t just go around threatening to arrest people just because they make you angry. You’ve already overstepped once; let’s not do it again.” He was chiding, but his tone was friendly.
Hancock was watching the newcomer levelly. Thomas’ mouth worked behind his own mustache, and finally, he turned and stalked back inside. But before he reached the doors, he turned and stared intensely at Gomez.
“One last time, Mario,” he said. “Don’t make things worse. Stay out of this.” Then he turned and disappeared into the county jail.
“I’m afraid that Sheriff Thomas is a bit tense these days,” the fat man said, holding his hand out to Hancock. “Francisco Acosta.”
“Roger Hancock,” was the reply, as Hancock shook the proffered hand. “I’m a friend of Mario’s.”
“As am I,” Acosta said, turning to Gomez. “How are you holding up, mijo?” he asked. “I’m sorry you had to stay in there so long; I didn’t find out until this morning, when I started making phone calls.”
Gomez wondered why Acosta had gone out of his way. It wasn’t like he and Juan Gomez had been close friends. Juan had always been more interested in minding his own affairs, whereas Acosta had a hand in every pie in the county, and had always seemed to be looking for more.
“I’m fine,” he said, his voice flat and dead. “I’ll be better when I find out what happened to my family, and that the ones responsible for it are going to pay.”
