by Carolina Mac
“Do I get to be a fav?” asked Carlos.
“Sure, you’re with my man.”
“This is my partner, Carlos,” said Farrell. “What’s the special? We haven’t got a lot of time, but I wanted to check in with you.”
Quinn leaned down and whispered to Carlos, “I’m helping Farrell.”
Carlos grinned. “I heard.”
“Hear anything useful?” asked Farrell.
“Not yet. Want drinks?”
“Shiner’s draft.”
“Yep,” said Carlos.
“Special is a steak sandwich with onion rings,” said Quinn. “A couple of guys ordered it and told me it was decent.”
“Good enough.”
Quinn hustled off to put the order in and Carlos blew out a breath. “That is one gorgeous girl, Farrell.”
“Nice, too. I’m fuckin toast.”
“I’m gonna make an effort,” said Carlos. “I’ve been lazy in the dating game.”
Windsor Park. Austin.
BLAINE picked the lock on the back door, place the tag and was out of the Carpenter’s ranch house inside of three minutes. He loped half way up the block to his truck and called Luke. “The house is done. Where are they now?”
“At a barbeque place on North Lamar.”
“Okay, they might lay low for a few. Keep them in sight. You might hear something useful when they get back home. Let me know.”
“Roger that, boss.”
Blaine rushed home to meet Annie for a beer. He’d invited her and he wasn’t even there. Stuck in traffic, he called. “Mom are you at the house?”
“Uh huh. I’m with the girls.”
“Don’t leave. I’m coming.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Don’t hurry.”
The dogs howled in the front hall as Blaine came through the door and after hugging both of them, he’d made it as far as the Sub-Zero when Lil came running into the kitchen.
“I found it. The factory color was army green.”
“Did you check the date of the hit and run against the date Milo Carpenter traded in the Jeep.”
“It was just over a week later,” said Lily. “Enough time to get body work done and get it repainted.”
Blaine pulled his cell off his belt and made the call.
I-35.
FARRELL and Carlos were cruising the interstate checking the bridges for lurking bikers when they got the call.
“Yeah, bro. What’s up?”
“Lil matched Milo Carpenter’s Jeep to the hit and run. Luke and Fletch are parked on the street already watching the house so go give them some backup and bring the brothers in.”
“What am I charging them with?”
“Premeditated murder.”
“That should make the DA’s phone ring,” said Farrell.
“Yeah, it will.”
Windsor Park. East Austin.
FLETCHER was asleep on his stool in the back of the surveillance unit, but Luke sat with the headset on keeping track of the limited conversation between the brothers. Mostly all he heard was the game on TV. They were watching the action and not talking.
Luke’s cell rang and Fletcher jumped. “What?”
“My phone.” Luke answered, “Hey, boss. Something?”
“Bring them in. Lil matched Milo to the hit and run vehicle that killed the witness.”
“Doesn’t put him behind the wheel,” said Luke. “He could say it was stolen.”
“It’s weak, but we have to keep the pressure on if we’re going to get them to roll on Mrs. Kryssa.”
“Yep, we’re up for it, boss,” said Luke. “At least we’ll know where they are for the next few days.”
“Wait until Farrell and Carlos get there. I sent them to help y’all.”
“Roger that, boss.”
Fletcher took a Red Bull out of the little fridge under the counter and drank it down. “Man, I was tired. What did the boss want?”
“We’re bringing the brothers in again. We’ve got them on the hit and run of the witness.”
“Let’s do it.”
“Carlos and Farrell are on their way. Five more minutes.”
“Gives me five to wake up,” said Fletch.
FARRELL parked directly behind the Bronco in the Carpenter’s driveway, blocking it in. Carlos and Fletch ran around the back of the house, Farrell and Luke took the front door.
“Police,” hollered Farrell. “Need to speak to Milo Carpenter.”
No answer.
Second try. “Open the door. This is the police. If you don’t open the door we’ll break it down.”
Carlos hollered from the back of the house. “Back way.”
Farrell took off running. “Stay there, Luke. If they come out, shoot them.”
Farrell rounded the house on the open side of the property and met Dustin Carpenter running full out with a gun in his hand. No time to do anything but punch him in the gut and drop him.
They rolled on the grass, Farrell trying to get the gun out of Dustin’s hand before he pulled the trigger.
Bang.
The shot went into the side of the house. Then Luke was there, cold-cocked Dustin and he went limp. Luke bagged Dustin’s gun while Farrell, breathing hard from the scuffle, cuffed him. Carlos and Fletcher came from behind the house dragging a cursing Milo Carpenter.
“You can’t arrest us again. We’re out on bail.”
“Not no more, you ain’t,” said Farrell. “We got y’all cold on murdering the witness. You and your brother are fuckin toast.”
Milo never shut up as Farrell and Carlos secured them in the back of Farrell’s truck. “I want my phone call. I got rights.”
Dustin was coming around, moaning with his eyes shut and reaching for his head. A trickle of blood inched it’s way down his forehead.
“Shut up,” said Farrell. “I got rights too. When y’all are riding in my truck, you say nothing.”
“Police brutality on my brother. I’ll sue you for that.”
“Hand me that duct tape out of the glove box,” Farrell said to Carlos. He ripped off two long strips and taped across the mouths of both the Carpenter brothers.
Carlos grinned as he jumped in the shotgun seat. “That was fun.”
“Be Miller time soon as we book the assholes.” Farrell stuck his head out the window and hollered at Luke. “Meet us at HQ. When we’re done we’ll get a pitcher.”
“Copy that,” Luke hollered back.
CHAPTER TEN
Wednesday, October 3rd.
East Martin Luther King Jr. Area. Austin.
WAYNE PRESSER finished his shift slugging boxes and packages and loading trucks at the FedEx depot. He punched out, said goodnight to the guys coming on shift and smiled when he laid eyes on his baby waiting for him in the parking lot.
His first Harley. He’d saved every cent he could spare for a whole year and finally in the Bike Trader he saw a Softail he could afford. He’d had it for three weeks now and rode it every chance he got. It sure beat taking the bus. And every time he started it up, the rumble of the engine flooded him with happiness.
His mom wasn’t thrilled about him riding a bike and she went on and on about safely and how other vehicles don’t watch out for you, but his dad loved the bike and rode it around the block the day Wayne brought it home.
Wayne smiled when he thought about the grin on his dad’s face when he set the kickstand on the driveway. Maybe his dad would get a bike and they could ride cross country together. That would be a dream come true.
Five minutes away from home and anxious to crawl into bed, Wayne squeezed the gas and felt the power under him. He was flying as he approached the bridge over route 183 and barely noticed the sharp pain in his chest. The strength left his body in an instant.
The gas died.
The rumble died.
Wayne died.
Quinn’s Apartment. Austin.
FARRELL’S cell rang on the nightstand and he grabbed for it. Blacky.
&
nbsp; “Where the hell are you? You ain’t in your bed.”
“I’m… at Quinn’s.”
“Meet me at 183 and MLK.”
“Yeah, I’m up.”
“Bring coffee.”
“Fuck you. You bring it.”
“Do you have to go?” Quinn was out of bed pulling a t-shirt over her head, her mop of blonde hair loose and unruly. She’d never looked more beautiful. Farrell could see her body backlit by the bedroom window, gray dawn coming down.
“Should have gone home in case.” Farrell reached for his clothes on the floor. “We’ve got too much going on for me to be away from him.”
“Who? Your brother?”
“Uh huh. He’s… he’s not at full power and it’s my fault.”
“Any time for breakfast?”
Farrell pulled up his jeans and zipped them up. “I’ve got to go.” He struggled into the harness, check the SW and picked up his keys. “I’ll call later. What time do you work?”
“Four to close.”
“Four. Go back to bed.” He kissed her roughly at the door, his fingers entwined in her long hair. “I don’t want to leave you.” He ran to his truck.
Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and Route 183.
FARRELL had stopped for coffee in case Blacky didn’t take the time and he was the last to arrive, behind the rest of the gang. He should have been home with these fuckin shootings going on every night. His brother shouldn’t have to look for him. He owed him that much.
Feeling guilty about Blaine getting shot on his watch, feeling guilty about hurting a nice person like Mary, and feeling guilty about things that had to stay buried forever, Farrell parked behind the medical examiner’s van and trudged towards the yellow tape trying his damndest to balance the hot coffee.
He handed Blacky a large container and stared down at the dead kid. Twenty, maybe twenty-one, wearing a brand new Harley jacket. Probably trying out his first goddam bike. Farrell took a sip of his coffee and thought he was gonna hurl. He ambled over to the shoulder of the road just in case.
“What’s wrong with you?” Blacky was beside him with a hand on his shoulder.
“The kid is too young.”
Blaine nodded. “I’ve got the ID. Let’s go tell his Mom.”
“I’ll park at the Walmart,” said Farrell. “Pick me up.”
BLAINE started the diesel and his cell rang. “Lieutenant Lopez. You’re up early.”
“Think this one might be yours, Blacky. Blond kid on the bridge at I-35 and Forty-fifth Street.”
“Shot?”
“His throat’s been cut.”
“Any sign of a weapon?”
“Nope.”
“Jesus, it’s those fuckin crazy bikers. I’ll be there in ten.” He drove to the Walmart parking lot and Farrell jumped in. “Lopez has a dead kid on a bridge. I bet he looks like the sniper picture in the paper and those fuckin bikers have offed an innocent.”
“I am gonna puke,” said Farrell.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” said Blaine.
“You ain’t wrong. They’ve been watching all the overpasses and they don’t give a sweet goddam who they kill. The fuckers are pissed at the sniper doing bikers and this kid is an example. They’re trying to make a point.”
“It’s Cortez,” said Blaine. “He’s gone nuts because of his girlfriend.”
Traffic was stopped on both sides of the bridge and uniforms were doing their best to reroute the oncoming from both directions. With the bridge out of service, morning traffic heading into the city would be backed up for miles.
Media vans were parked on both sides of the road and on both sides of the overpass and the reporters and cameramen pushed and shoved at the yellow tape. Filming what they could see and shouting questions without letup, Blaine wanted to kill them all.
“Hellfires,” hollered Farrell. “We’re gonna have to walk a fuckin mile.”
“Let’s see how close I can get,” said Blaine. He turned on the siren and bullied his way a little closer.
“Still a long way for you to walk, bro. You up for it?”
“Have to be, don’t I?”
“We have to pass through the media mob,” said Farrell. “I’ll deck anybody who tries to touch you.”
“I need a cloak of invisibility,” mumbled Blaine. “Like Harry.”
“Let him through, or I’ll arrest all of you,” hollered Farrell waving his arms. “Make a space.”
The throng parted slightly and let the two of them reach the yellow tape and duck under. Uniforms were holding the line at both ends of the bridge. Not an easy job.
Lopez greeted them with a grin and a handshake when they finally trudged through all the looky-loos and made it to the scene.
“Any sign of a rifle?” asked Farrell.
“No weapon was found,” said Lopez.
Blaine shook his head. “No rifle. This ain’t the sniper. This is a fuckin sacrifice. Couldn’t be any fuckin worse.”
“ID?” asked Farrell.
“Yeah,” Lopez handed him a plastic bag containing a wallet. “He doesn’t live far from here. You doing the notification?”
“That’s two for me this morning,” said Blaine, “and I don’t have time to do either one. I have to meet Jesse at headquarters in twenty minutes.”
Tarrytown. Austin.
FARRELL picked up his truck in the Walmart parking lot and whipped back to the Agency to pick up Carlos, Fletcher and Luke. “Everybody armed with sidearms and shotguns. Body armor on—no exceptions. Blacky wants Vinny Cortez brought in and that’s gonna be a hard sell.”
Cortez would not come easily and if any of his club buddies were with Cortez in his apartment, four men might not be enough.
“Apartment seven forty,” said Farrell to the boys in the elevator. They’d rousted the super and he didn’t hold back. He cursed them up and down. The miserable guy was pissed off that cops had woken him up and made him open the door to the lobby. As soon as they were inside, Farrell sent him back to his apartment and told him to stay there.
On floor seven, Farrell positioned the boys on each side of the doorway while he knocked loudly and announced himself. “Police, Mr. Cortez. Need to talk to you.”
No response.
“Hear it?” asked Carlos. “He’s not alone in there.”
Farrell banged on the door. “Police, Mr. Cortez.” He gave the nod to Carlos and the big Latino kicked the door right off its hinges.
The door flew inward, and bullets flew towards them.
Bang. Bang.
Farrell shot at the flashpoints from the doorway and two bikers hit the floor. With a loud crash, Cortez tipped the kitchen table up on its side, dropped down behind it and used it as a shield.
“Call it in, Luke. Ambulances and backup.”
Carlos and Fletcher disarmed the two moaning bikers who were shot. Both were bleeding heavily from the chest area. Farrell’s center mass shots never missed.
“You’re under arrest, Mr. Cortez,” hollered Farrell from the wide kitchen archway. “Toss your weapon out first and come out of there with your hands on your head.”
“Fuck yourself,” hollered Cortez.
Farrell took a step back into the living room area, and using pure adrenaline, picked up a recliner and heaved it at the table top. The huge chair crashed into the table and knocked Cortez over backwards. Farrell ran forward following the chair. Cortez fired wildly scrambling to get out from under the pile of furniture and the second Farrell caught a glimpse of Cortez’s head of bushy hair he pulled the trigger.
Bang.
Dead biker.
Paramedics arrived, started IV’s and took away the two wounded men.
“Follow them to the hospital, get the details on those two and make sure they’re secure,” said Farrell, “then come to headquarters and help with the paperwork. I’ve got to wait here for the ME.”
“Roger that,” said Fletcher. “Nice throw on the recliner.” He gave Farrell a fist bump.
“I better phone Blacky,” said Farrell to himself, then turned to Carlos. “Let’s look for the knife. We need a weapon for the kid on the bridge.”
“Yep, these Blade Devils should have knives stashed all over. Two here from the shot guys. Could be either one of those. He picked up the evidence bags. I’ll get busy.”
Ranger Headquarters. Austin.
JESSE had just arrived and Blacky caught him as he carried coffee into the Chief’s office.
“Am I late?”
“Hell no. I haven’t had time for a coffee yet.”
“We had two bodies already this morning,” said Blaine. “Hope that’s it for today.” His cell rang and he loitered in the hallway to answer. “Farrell.”
“Vinny Cortez didn’t want to come with.”
“He dead?”
“Yep, waiting for Mort. Two buddies shot at us and they’re on route to Saint Mike’s. Luke and Fletch are on them.”
“Shit. I’ll tell the Chief. That’s a three-fer. Come here when you’re cleaned up and while y’all are waiting, try to find a knife.”
“Looking for the knife now.”
“Jesse and I are starting the interviews with the Carpenter brothers. We might have something on Leigh Kryssa by the time y’all get here.”
“Roger that, boss.”
JESSE set up room two and waited with his notes in front of him for the ranger on lockup duty to bring Milo Carpenter to him. He nodded as Carpenter was shackled to the bar on the metal table.
“How’s it going, Mr. Carpenter?”
“Ain’t going at all. You assholes can’t arrest me, I’m on bail.”
“We have new evidence against you, Mr. Carpenter, and we can arrest you again. Perfectly legal.”
“What’s the new evidence you made up? I know cops do it all the time. Plant evidence and make up shit to close cases. I seen it on TV a million times.”
“This ain’t a TV show,” said Jesse. “We have copies of the ownership of the Jeep you used to drive. The one you used to run down Jennifer Larimer.”
“Who?”
“She was the witness who said Edward Kryssa robbed the store. Remember her? You ran her down and killed her.”
