I found Sarge and Lucky taking inventory of my arsenal. Skeeter had been living at my place while I was at the ranch, and I had given him the combo to my gun safe so he could bring me ammo and a spare pistol while I was recuperating.
“I think we can hold off the Dragon’s gang with this stuff,” Sarge said, inspecting an AR-10. I had a dozen spare twenty-round magazines and enough ammo to fill them all a few times over. I told them Rose would stop by with supper. If she didn’t, I asked Sarge to check on her. I didn’t want to take any chances.
Skeeter was sitting at the kitchen table glued to his laptop. He could type faster with one hand than most people could with two.
“Anything new?” I asked, pulling a Shiner Bock out of the fridge.
“That Dodge Ram from the strip club is on the move.”
“Headed our way?”
“Not at the moment.”
I drank my beer and watched Sarge finish his inspection of the Colt AR-10 and load a full twenty-round clip. Lucky chose a Colt 1911 .45 to supplement his 9mm. It was well used but could still get the job done. I was confident that they would protect the house and Rose without much trouble. Keeping them all at my house would also be safer for them. I wouldn’t have to worry about putting them in a situation where they might take a bullet or worse. I had put Skeeter in harm’s way on my last case, and I didn’t want that to happen again. I also worked better alone. It didn’t matter how much training or experience Sarge had or how many street fights Lucky had been in, if they were with me, I would always be looking over my shoulder to protect them.
“What’re you gonna do?” Skeeter asked.
I took another drink of beer, then checked my phone. No messages. It was eight thirty and full dark outside. “Send me the addresses for his tire shops.”
I pulled an AR-15 from the safe. I had another AR-10, but the 15 was smaller and better suited for close combat work. I had a Surefire suppressor for the AR-15, and the reduction of noise might come in handy. It could also take a thirty-round clip in case I needed more firepower. I loaded the rifle, extra magazines, and two spare boxes of .223 ammo in a black duffle bag. The last thing I tossed in was a Mossberg shotgun. If Russell Stevens wanted to go to war, I was ready.
“Stay in contact. I wanna know if they come to the house.” I pulled my Kevlar bulletproof vest over my head and slipped on a button-down shirt to cover it.
“Be careful,” Skeeter said as I picked up the duffle bag and walked out the door.
Chapter Forty
The tire shop Skeeter linked to Russell Stevens’s criminal enterprise was located past the air force base on I-90. It wasn’t the kind of place you’d take the family minivan to have a flat fixed. There were old tires stacked outside and piles of accumulated trash mixed into the weeds and dead grass along the base of the neglected fence. The building used to be a gas station, but the pumps had been removed and sealed with metal covers. The only thing new on the property was the soda pop machine near the front door.
I pulled in behind the stack of used tires and looked for signs of life. There was a vintage Chevy Impala in car-show condition parked in front of the service garage entrance. It was painted deep purple and had a lowrider hydraulic lift package. The business on the east side was a mom-and-pop Mexican food restaurant that had served its last meal in the seventies. On the west side was a pawnshop featuring a sign that welcomed active duty military. They were already advertising a Veteran’s Day sale. It was no accident that the Dragon set up near a military base. Every place I’d ever been stationed had scum just like him who preyed on young servicemen looking for an escape from the long duty hours and lonely down time miles away from home.
A late-model Chevy Tahoe with a base parking sticker pulled in beside the Impala. The driver hit the car horn twice. I could see the side of the driver’s face through the open window. He was young, probably eighteen or nineteen, with a bootcamp haircut and a clean shave. Two identical young men sat in the back seat.
The front door of the station opened. A kid of maybe twenty-five appeared. He was not much older than the young airmen in the Tahoe. He was white with an array of tats on his arms and neck. He wore red high-top basketball shoes and a black silk do-rag that hung to his shoulders. His jean shorts sagged below his waist, cinched there by a white cotton belt. The kid was a GQ fashion icon.
He glanced up and down the mostly empty feeder road, then walked to the passenger side of the Tahoe. I couldn’t see the exchange, but I didn’t have to guess what was going on.
The Tahoe sped away, and GQ shuffled back inside the garage. I waited a few more minutes to see if there would be any more traffic. When the coast was clear, I slipped out of my pickup and grabbed my spare gas can from the back. The rap music coming from inside was loud enough to mask any sound I made. I had no doubt the men inside were dangerous, but mainly to themselves and servicemen buying their shit.
I searched the plywood-covered windows for an opening and found a hole in the back window large enough to see into the garage. Stacks of boxes took up most of the space. This place hadn’t seen a tire customer for a long time. GQ and his twin were lounging in the corner watching a porn video. They probably weren’t related but wore the same T-shirt and black-silk do-rag like a uniform. An older thug wearing designer jeans walked out of the restroom zipping his fly. There was a Glock tucked behind his back. He opened a beer and stood behind the younger men staring at the naked woman with impossibly large breasts on the widescreen TV. I waited for ten minutes, but nobody else was in the building.
I found a length of rusty chain and hooked it around the handles on the double doors. My plan was to give them only one way out. Then I circled back to the front entrance.
It was a shame to trash such a sleek ride, but I knew how they paid for it and didn’t feel guilty. I opened the gas can and sloshed fuel on the plastic upholstery. The gas soaked in for a few minutes, then I lit a match. The explosion was instantaneous. I retreated to the stack of old tires near my pickup and pulled out my Mossberg shotgun.
The fire quickly engulfed the Impala. Tongues of flame licked the rusty service station overhang. I waited for the heat or the noise from the fire to get their attention.
The door sprang open. A hand holding a chrome-plated pistol appeared. Flame spit from the barrel. Shots rang out over the roar of the fire. The pistol bucked four more times, randomly blasting the night air.
A voice shouted: “Who’s out there?”
“I’m looking for the Dragon!”
The pistol bucked again, this time in my general direction. The bullets made hollow plunking sounds hitting the old steel-belted radials.
GQ appeared in the doorway.
I pulled the trigger. The shotgun blast hit him in the chest. Blood spread quickly across his white T-shirt before he collapsed on the driveway.
“I’m looking for the Dragon,” I shouted again.
Two hands grabbed GQ and pulled him back inside.
“Did you hear me? Where is he?”
“Fuck you!” someone shouted back. The barrel of a rifle appeared. They were upping the ante. A pistol couldn’t penetrate the tires from this distance, but a .223 or a .308 might do some damage.
I fired the Mossberg at the door.
“Don’t shoot, man. I’m coming out!” a voice shouted.
GQ’s twin dove through the open door and landed on his stomach, firing the AR-15 blindly in my direction. The bullets cut through the tires and hit the side of my pickup.
I pulled the trigger.
The twin screamed in pain. He rolled onto his back and put his hands in the hair. “You fucking shot me!”
“Toss the weapon,” I shouted.
He dropped the AR and rolled away from the fire.
“I’m coming out!” the older voice shouted from behind the door. A hand appeared holding a Glock pistol. “I’m coming out. Don’t shoot.” The hand tossed the pistol on the concrete driveway. The car fi
re roared like a bonfire.
The man with the designer jeans walked out with his hands up. He had shoulder-length dark hair and enough lines on his face to be in his late thirties or early forties.
“Get down on your knees,” I yelled.
“The car’s gonna explode, man!”
The GQ kid yelled for help, but the man ignored him.
I walked forward, keeping the shotgun level with his waist. “Then you better talk. Where’s the Dragon?”
“Nobody knows where he is.”
“Down on your knees,” I yelled.
He got down on his knees, turning his face away from the flames. “Who’re you? What d’you want, man?”
Something popped over the roar of the fire. The purple paint bubbled, and the upholstery gave off a thick black smoke. The fire jumped to the plywood covering the front door of the garage.
I took another step forward. The heat was intense.
“There’s money inside. Let me go. I’ll get you twenty grand,” he begged.
“Where does the money go? Who collects it?”
“Come on, man. Dragon will kill me.”
“You think I give a shit? I know you sell to the kids on base.”
“I’m just trying to make a living.”
I aimed at the burning Impala and pulled the trigger. The blast blew the trunk open, exposing a pile of melting black plastic bags.
“Who picks up the money?” I repeated. “Tell me and I let you go.”
He glanced at the burning car. Sweat poured down his face.
“Tell him, Manny,” the GQ kid yelled. “Get me outta here!” He tried to drag himself away from the flames.
“Leo, man. Leo the jeweler,” Manny said.
“Where can I find him?”
“He runs a pawnshop on Culebra.”
An explosion rocked the Impala, sending sparks flying in all directions. The man jumped to his feet. His right hand went behind his back.
I pulled the trigger.
The shotgun blast hit him in the legs, forcing him backward into the flames. He screamed and dropped the pistol.
I ran to my pickup. Sirens raced toward the scene. Red flashing emergency lights appeared on the I-90 freeway. I grabbed a blanket from behind the seat and ran back to the flames. I threw the blanket over the man and pulled him out of the fire. I grabbed GQ next and dragged him beside Manny. They would live but would always remember what happened here.
“I’m Nick Fischer,” I said. “Call the Dragon and tell him what happened here. Tell him I want Maya Chavez back.”
Chapter Forty-One
It was after midnight by the time I returned to my house in King William. I parked on the corner and spent fifteen minutes studying the other cars on the street, looking for anything out of place. I was under no illusions that Russell Stevens would suddenly do the right thing and hand over Maya. He had shaken hands with the devil when he killed his stepfather and never looked back, and he would kill me in a heartbeat. He didn’t play by the same rules as everybody else. To get Maya back, I had to think like him.
The pawnshop on Culebra was near St. Mary’s University, where I’d spent a year and a half in law school. If I didn’t hear from Russell by morning, Leo the jeweler was next on my list. Between now and then, I could use a couple hours of sleep.
The lights were off inside my house. I approached the front door with my hands in plain sight. I knew Sarge and Lucky were watching the yard. The door was open.
Sarge was waiting in the living room with the AR-10 strapped to his left shoulder. He had on a dark-green T-shirt and a black watch cap and was ready for anything that walked through the door.
“Any trouble?” I asked.
“Skeeter tracked the manager’s pickup. It cruised past the house about two hours ago. We had the lights off. He didn’t stop.”
“How was the pot roast?” I asked. The smell of cooked meat and gravy lingered in the air.
“We left you a plate in the fridge, unless Skeeter ate it.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me.”
“How’d you make out? You smell like smoke.”
“I had a bonfire. The tire shop was a front for his drug operation. I shut it down.”
“Still no word from the man?”
“Nothing.”
“You sure you’re all right? You don’t look too good.”
“I just need some pot roast and a few hours’ sleep.” I wandered into the kitchen and found the plate of food where Rose had left it in the fridge covered in foil. There was a thick slice of beef smothered in gravy with new potatoes and carrots on the side. After a few minutes in the microwave, the meal smelled like heaven. The last couple of days had reminded me of being on deployment, but this meal beat the hell out of the vacuum-packed military MREs.
I finished the glorious pot roast and rinsed the plate for Rose, then I left Sarge on watch and made my way upstairs. It felt good to strip off the bloody T-shirt and rinse the wound. I taped a new gauze pad in place and stumbled to my mattress. Before my eyes closed, the phone rang. I was hoping it was the Dragon, but the caller ID showed Detective Ochoa.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t arrest you right now?” she asked when I accepted her call.
“Good to hear from you, Detective.”
“Don’t give me any of your shit, Fischer. I’ve got calls from all over town.”
“Somebody’s doing your dirty work for you.”
“So, you’re a vigilante now? When you can’t get what you want, you start shooting up clubs and burning down gas stations? Tell me why I shouldn’t have your license revoked right now?
“You know who they belong to. If you don’t, you’re not doing your job.”
“I am doing my job, which is why I’m calling you in the middle of the night. Don’t you care about law and order?”
“Give me forty-eight hours and I’ll bring you enough evidence to take down Russell Stevens.”
“You’re in a very dangerous place right now. I don’t know whether you’re my new hero or just another gangster. Either way, if you keep going, you’ll be dead by morning.”
“I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Ochoa took a deep breath. Her voice shifted from anger to concern. “If you have something, give it to me now.”
“I need to find Maya first.”
“Tell me what you got. Let me help. You think I don’t want the bad guys off the streets as much as you do?”
“Look, you’re good, and I trust you. But you’d only slow me down.”
“Goddamn you, Fischer.” She took a long moment to collect herself. I listened to her steady breathing through the phone. “You got twenty-four hours. Get me that evidence or I will arrest you, hero or not.”
Chapter Forty-Two
The pawn shop was still closed when I arrived at eight thirty the next morning. It opened at nine, and I wanted to be in the parking lot before Leo arrived. Skeeter had done some digging and found a picture of the owner in an old online advertisement. Everybody had a digital footprint. His full name was Leonidas Kostopoulos. The headshot showed a man in his fifties with a trimmed goatee, bushy sideburns, and red designer eyeglasses. His chubby cheeks and double chin gave him the look of someone who spent more time behind a glass counter than out in the sunlight. He definitely didn’t resemble his namesake warrior from ancient Greek history.
At eighty forty-five a new silver Lexus LX pulled into the reserved parking place beside the back door. The man who got out had on a tan suit with a seventies-style dark blue button-down shirt. A thick gold chain hung across a chest full of gray hair. He’d put on a few pounds, but it was the same guy from the picture, and he still wore the same designer eyewear.
While he fumbled with a set of janitor keys hooked to a chain on his belt, I pulled my Springfield and got out of my pickup. He put the key in the lock, and I pressed the barrel of
my pistol to the back of his thick neck.
“Good morning, Leonidas.”
He raised his hands to shoulder height, giving me a good view of the diamond studded pinky ring on his left hand.
“I don’t have any money,” he said. His voice had a singsong quality that emphasized his Greek accent.
“You’re lying, Leo. Let’s go inside.”
I followed him through the door and into a cluttered back office. There were stacks of papers on a cheap metal desk and boxes on the floor covered with dust. I turned on the light and frisked Leo for weapons. He had a S&W .40 stuck inside his elastic waistband.
“Turn around,” I said.
Leo kept his hands up and slowly pivoted. His face was pale, and he was sweating despite the morning chill.
“You’re him.”
“Expecting someone?”
“Nick Fischer. You burned down the tire shop. Y-you don’t have to do this,” he stuttered.
“Do what?”
“Kill me.”
I let him sweat while I examined the pictures on his desk. One showed a teen girl in a white school uniform dress, her dark hair tucked over her shoulders. She had a shy, intelligent smile. Another showed a boy near the same age, maybe a year older, with ironed khaki pants and a white Oxford shirt with a dark blue tie.
“Those your kids?” I asked.
Leo nodded nervously.
“They go to private school?”
“St. Mary’s Hall.”
“Business must be good.”
“I do all right.”
I tapped him hard in the chest with the barrel of my .45. He took a quick step back to keep from falling over. “You’re the worst kind of scum. You think your hands are clean, but your money is covered in blood.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Russell took a girl your daughter’s age from Fredericksburg. She’s the granddaughter of on old friend. I want her back.”
“You’re gonna kill me?”
Second Chances Page 20