by Hunt, Jack
And now as he returned to his roots, to those who he’d rubbed shoulders with, he could only imagine what they would say. He recalled what it was like when five-0 rolled into their neighborhood. Gang members with warrants would flee, disappear into the cracks of the city, into apartments to hide. It wasn’t fear but common sense. No one wanted to do time even though most would.
Garcia weaved the cruiser through the streets, avoiding areas he knew would only welcome gunfire. He knew the lookouts, the runners, those who would bring news back to the rest, but today was different. Without the radio, they wouldn’t know until they saw him. When they did, he was quick to park the vehicle and make the familiar gang symbol with his fingers. It wasn’t the first time he’d been up there in uniform but with trigger-happy members, those looking to gain a reputation and the chaos around them, he knew there was a risk of being shot.
He held out his arms to show them he wasn’t armed.
Even his pant legs were rolled up to his calf.
“Marco Rodriguez. Tell him Felix Garcia is here to see him,” he said, walking toward them without a weapon, or even his police shirt on. All he was wearing was a white undershirt, black pants and his police-issued boots. Andre was not far behind him, also not carrying a weapon. There was no point bringing them as they would only be removed. A young Hispanic kid, couldn’t have been more than eleven, darted off down the alleyway, while six adults circled them, tattoos covering their bodies, flashing their gold teeth and sizing them up. They had no qualms about stabbing them and leaving them to suffocate in their own blood. Death on the streets was a way of life, no different than cracking open a can of beer at the end of a busy day.
A minute or two of sneering, then someone whistled and they got the all-clear.
Directed down an alley they were led into a block of apartments and up a series of steps. They could hear rap music playing, and the rumble of a diesel generator. Wires snaked away from it into two apartments. Grid down or not, it was business as usual. A few half-naked black women with hooped earrings slid by them as they entered through a colorful bead curtain hung over the doorway. A large fan blew air to cool the heat of the day as they walked through the narrow hallway. To the left, a door was slightly ajar. Garcia caught sight of some guy banging a chick over a bathroom sink. He saw Garcia in the reflection of the mirror, turned and gave the door a shove to close it. The grunting continued. Some things never changed.
As he rounded a corner into the living room, there on a plush sofa was Marco, he’d gained some weight, though most of it was muscle. He had no T-shirt on, just baggy cream-colored khakis and white brand-name sneakers. His arms were covered in ink, and on his stomach was a tattoo of his first name, and on his left chest a dark handprint. He was sporting a stylish pair of sunglasses, and a horseshoe mustache. In front of him were lines of coke, and a revolver. Leaning up against the sofa was a shotgun. Several of his guys were sitting nearby, each of them doped up.
Marco lifted his eyes and a broad smile formed. He enjoyed the gang life, and like any good foot soldier he eventually worked his way up through the ranks.
“Felix Garcia, I must say, I didn’t believe it when they said you were here.”
He and Marco went way back. Growing up on the same streets they had been like two peas in a pod. Wherever he was, Garcia wasn’t that far behind.
However, unlike years gone by, there was no handshake, no welcome, just a stumped look of confusion. “Marco.”
“Homie, you’re either suffering from amnesia or you have got to be the dumbest motherfucker to waltz back into this neighborhood, especially after the shit you pulled.”
Garcia nodded. He expected it. “How’s Gabriella?”
“Dead. Next question.”
“Cesar?”
“Doing time.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, I bet you are.” He leaned over and snorted a line then knocked his head back and got this wild look in his eyes. “How about you get to the reason you’re here.”
“I need your help.”
He offered back a deadpan expression then burst out laughing. “You need my help? You hear that, boys? Oh I’ve got to hear this.”
“Carlos Zonaras has a friend of mine.”
“And?”
“I can’t do it alone.”
“Ah,” he said leaning back on the black leather sofa. “This is beautiful. When the world falls apart you come knocking. When all was well… where were you?” He got up from his seat, scooped up his revolver and made his way over, looking him up and down. Neither he nor Andre showed any fear but they were both feeling it. “You know if I dropped you where you stand, I wouldn’t lose a night of sleep.”
He walked past Garcia and looked Andre in the eye. “The real OG. Andre. What a waste of potential.”
“You owe me,” Garcia said.
Marco turned on a dime, bringing the gun up to his own head and tapping the barrel of it. “What did you say?”
“Emilia.”
Marco got almost nose to nose with Garcia. Back when they were teens, his eleven-year-old sister had taken a wrong turn and walked into a rival neighborhood on the way home from school. Most of the time when that happened people died, or were violently beaten. In her case someone raped her and left her for dead.
Retaliation for such an act would often occur within days but it was always random — a drive-by shooting, a beating of another rival member — but finding those responsible for murder, well that was rare.
Too distraught to retaliate, Marco had retreated into a drug-fueled haze, but not Garcia. Call it a suicide mission, loyalty or a need to see justice served; Garcia had entered that neighborhood alone and tracked down the one responsible and dragged him back. He could still remember the look on Marco’s face when he dumped the seventeen-year-old in front of him. He knew the risk Garcia had taken, and that he could have died. That night he promised Garcia that whenever he needed his help he would be there. What happened to that kid was a mystery but word on the street was that Marco tortured him for days before killing him and dumping his body.
“Don’t you dare!” Marco said through gritted teeth.
“I need your help.”
He sneered and cocked the gun and placed it against Garcia’s temple. “You were my brother. You were my brother,” he repeated.
“I still am,” he said.
He shook his head, closing his eyes. “No. No you’re not.”
“Go on then. Pull it. Squeeze the damn trigger.”
“Don’t push me.”
“You want me dead, go on. Do it!”
The others in the room looked on with morbid curiosity. It wouldn’t have been the first time they’d seen someone executed in front of them. Marco’s hand was shaking. His nostrils flared as he uncocked the gun and turned away from him. “Once this is done, we are even. You hear me?”
“Understood.”
31
Elisha’s heart hammered in her chest as she waited to strike.
Gripping a shard of glass with a torn piece of shirt, she glanced at Liam. Minutes after being served lukewarm slop in a bowl, she’d climbed onto one of the huge wooden barrels and used her elbow to break the glass window. Fearing someone heard, she returned to her spot, however, no one showed. If the opening had been wider she might have been able to work her body through it and avoid a confrontation but it was too narrow. Instead, they waited, and prepared for their captor’s return.
“Remember what I said.”
She nodded.
Seconds turned to minutes and what felt like an hour before they heard heavy footsteps. One lock after the other shifted then the door groaned open. The guy stood there staring at them, not daring to enter until he felt it was safe. He noticed their bowls were untouched. “Ah, what? You didn’t like it? The chef will be disappointed,” he said, snorting as he ambled in and scooped up Liam’s tray.
C’mon, c’mon, keep moving, she thought. A few more steps.
<
br /> Instead, he turned his head, a gust of wind blew in and he saw the pane of glass was gone. In a flash his eyes lit up but before he could cry for help, Liam bounced up and drove glass into the side of his neck, and wrapped a hand over his mouth.
Elisha followed through, sinking her shard into the center of his throat.
Blood spurted and his body twitched in Liam’s grip before his legs buckled and they brought him down. Liam removed the handgun at the back of his pants, checked the magazine and made sure there was a round in the chamber before they ventured out.
They passed wine racks, and storage rooms full of boxes, before they made it to a series of stone steps that led up to a door. Lights were on. A generator could be heard churning. The closer they were to the top, the louder and clearer voices got.
“No sign of him yet, Carlos.”
“How many are dead?”
“We killed four more this morning. Shot this one officer as he was trying to help someone out of the rubble. He didn’t even see it coming.”
Elisha thought they were referring to Garcia and then she heard one of them talk about Andre and the city council. “You want us to take out the mayor?”
“No. We might need him. Good work. Keep me updated.”
They pressed their backs to the wall as two men walked by. Had they turned they would have seen them in the stairwell. Liam motioned with a jerk of his head and they continued up. At the top Elisha peered around and could make out a Latino sitting at the bar talking with a woman. Not far from him were three other guys around a table playing cards, smoking joints and eating. Liam looked the other way and spotted an emergency exit. While they were close to it, they would still need to step out into the narrow corridor, exposing themselves to those in the main bar. If even one spotted them, it would be over.
Frozen in place, Elisha tightened her grip on the glass as Liam mouthed directions to her. He wanted her to step out and hurry toward the exit while he covered her with the handgun. Her heart was in her throat. Perspiration beaded on her forehead as she took a few deep breaths and worked up the courage to move.
“Ready?” he asked in a whisper.
She gave a nod and took one more look before slipping out.
The woman at the bar raised the alarm. Elisha darted for the exit as Liam moved backwards. Yelling ensued, threats, and then as she kicked open the exit and stepped out into the blinding light, she entered an alleyway where six gang members were smoking. She turned right into the butt end of a gun.
What came next occurred in a series of flashes.
Yelling.
A gun going off.
Fists, cursing and glass shattering.
Liam winced in pain as his face appeared near hers.
A hand pressed against his cheek, holding his skull against the asphalt.
“Carlos, they killed José.”
Dragged to her feet, the world spun.
Her head was aching, her jaw felt like it was broken.
Blood trickled into her mouth as they were strong-armed back to their prison and forced inside. However, instead of binding and locking them up, the group parted, and a Latino stepped forward and crouched beside her.
“You do this?” He asked pointing to his dead friend.
She spat in his face and he wiped the spit off and licked it with a grin before lashing out and backhanding her to the ground. “Bitch, you’re lucky I don’t hand you over to my men. The only reason you both don’t have a bullet in your head right now is because I need you for Garcia. Then again, I don’t need both of you. Now tell me which of you did this?”
“I did,” Liam confessed. “She had nothing to do with it. I did it.”
Elisha propped herself up, grimacing in pain. “No, that’s not true.”
“Take him out.”
Several of his men grabbed Liam and started dragging him out.
“No. Please no!” Elisha said. “It was me.”
Still crouched in front of her, he put his arm back. “Wait!”
“I did it. Okay? I killed that bastard. Just me. Yeah, you should have seen his face when I dug that glass in.”
Carlos narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
“Elisha, no,” Liam said shaking his head, blood dripping from his forehead and mouth where they’d viciously beaten him.
“You want someone to blame. Blame me,” she said.
Carlos ran a hand around her face. “Change of plans. Bring me two chairs.”
He never took his eyes off Elisha even as she looked around him to see what was happening. Once the chairs were in, Carlos instructed one of them to hold her while he went over to Liam and forced him down onto his knees. One of his men held Liam as Carlos took Liam’s left arm and placed it across the chairs so the elbow was in the gap and facing up. He then had another guy hold his wrist as he went between the chairs.
“No. Please,” Elisha said. “He had nothing to do with this.”
“I don’t believe you.”
As soon as he said that he raised his foot and brought it down on the elbow, breaking his arm. Liam let out a scream so loud, she thought she’d throw up. As soon as he was done, he pointed at her. “Save the tears, you’re next.”
“No. No.”
“By the time I’m done with you, both of your arms will be broken.”
They dragged her over, kicking and screaming, but a brutal strike to the face soon subdued her. They forced her shoulder down against the chair and pulled on her good arm while Carlos took a few deep breaths as he prepared to inflict the same punishment. Just as he raised his leg, one of his men upstairs yelled down. “Carlos. Norteños!”
Carlos whirled and bellowed in Spanish before turning back. “Tie them up, and the rest of you upstairs.” They moved fast, conversing with one another in Spanish. She couldn’t understand but whatever had spooked them, it was enough that they moved quickly. As they bound her, she heard gunfire, round after round.
A continual onslaught.
It sounded like a war.
“Ah screw this,” the guy said, leaving her partially tied up as he took off and locked the door behind them. As soon as they were gone, Elisha shuffled over to Liam who was still crying in agony, his arm angled in an unnatural way.
32
North Carolina
Finding a vehicle wasn’t hard, obtaining one without being shot, well, that was the challenge. As they peered out from the cover of a nearby tree line, Alex noted the luck of Weaverville. Like a California wildfire that left certain buildings intact, Weaverville had all but escaped unscathed. Not a single structure was in ruins. Sure, there were fissures in the streets but that was all. No smoke. No fire. The religious might have claimed the protection of God and possibly that was true, but more than likely it was because not all communities were affected by the disaster.
Although the grid was down, order appeared to have been maintained. Hell, some of the businesses were even open, though they all stated clearly with signs in windows: CASH ONLY.
A cop car rolled by, and for a moment his heart sped up thinking it was Cowboy until he saw the Weaverville decal on the side.
Alex turned and handed his rifle to Sophie. “You got my handgun?” They swapped. “I’ll head in. You all stay here. See what I can find. No point all of us sticking our necks out.”
“And if you find a ride, will you leave without us?” she asked, still pissed off.
His brow furrowed. “Just stay here. I’ll be back.”
He stuck the handgun into the waistband of his jeans, and covered it with his jacket before heading into town. He had little money so purchasing a car wasn’t in the cards, and as the cops were patrolling, no doubt on high alert for looters, the odds of being arrested were strong.
Even though they had taken that pastor’s SUV, the idea of carjacking someone else still felt wrong. He’d lived his life abiding by the rules but under the circumstances what other options did he have? It wasn’t like someone was going to gift him a vehi
cle. And if he didn’t time it right he could find himself in a high-speed chase and that was the last thing he needed.
As Alex ambled down Main Street eyeing potential targets. He saw an elderly woman carrying bags toward a car. The thought crossed his mind. It would have been easy. Shove her into the car, drive away and drop her off, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
As he passed her, one of the brown bags she was juggling split and fruit and vegetables went all over the ground. He darted toward her and for a second she looked frightened, but he simply dropped down and began picking up the fruit. “Damn bags are too thin,” he remarked handing her some oranges. “Is that your vehicle?” he asked, pointing to a blue Ford sedan. She nodded and he told her he’d give her a hand loading the goods in the back. Nervous, she agreed. As she opened the rear door, the thought went through his mind again. Push her. Do it. Just do it. Elisha is waiting for you. If you don’t get back soon she’ll…
He lifted his hands as the old woman bent over and leaned in.
One shove.
That was all it would take.
He could trap her cries inside the car.
No. No, he couldn’t.
Fortunately the opportunity vanished.
A siren wailed, then a cop car rolled into the lot and approached a guy on a mountain bike. The cop cut Alex a glance as he got out to speak with the rider.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, quickly walking away, stuffing his hands into his pockets and grumbling under his breath. A few times he pulled on the handles of cars outside stores. Most were too smart to leave their cars open but he knew some would, even if they were the minority. Old-timers, folks who were absent-minded or those who believed in a world where you could leave your door unlocked.
But not today.
Every single door was locked.
Cars rolled by and he kept his head down trying not to draw attention.
In a parking lot near the intersection of Merrimon Avenue and South Maine Street, a white truck swerved in front of him and for a second he thought it was Cowboy’s crew or an undercover cop. The driver, a man clearly in his sixties with a fierce white beard and a baseball cap on, stuck his face out. “You need a ride somewhere?”