Warning Shot

by Dustin Stevens

  The same smile I remembered appeared. Not the one she’d been wearing a moment before, trying to brush past the initial tension. The one I had spent years waking up to every morning in Corvallis.

  The one that said I was a little crazy, even if she didn’t mind.

  “I could say the same about your crew,” she answered. “Have you ever seen a crowd disperse that fast in your life?”

  “I have not,” I replied. A joke flitted across my mind before being nudged aside, not quite trusting myself or the situation enough to hazard a stab at humor. “So, back in town?”

  “I am,” she said. “For the time being anyway.”

  “Yeah?” I asked. “And then off to...?”

  “Not sure. Couple things up in the air,” she said. “How about you? Still working out of Coronado?”

  She didn’t bother adding anything more to what the first part of her answer meant. Much like with the joke a moment earlier, I didn’t quite trust myself or the situation enough to press.

  “Just back, actually,” I said.

  “Yeah? From where?”

  Thumbs hooked into the pockets of my shorts, I turned over a shoulder. Spotting Swinger and Ross both at the front of the ticket line, I saw them steal a glance my way, each failing miserably to make it look natural.

  “Not really allowed to say, though it was somehow even hotter there than here, if you can imagine that.”

  This time, it was her turn to let a vague response go. Instead, she seized on the back end, her eyes growing a touch wider.

  “No,” she managed. “I cannot imagine that. Nor do I even want to.”

  I could feel a smile come to my face as a pair of headlights swept across us. Moving from left to right, they passed over the front of the theater before their source settled in beside us, a Honda Accord coming to a stop along the curb.

  Glancing over to it, Mira frowned slightly, flicking her gaze back to me.

  “That’s Bethany,” she said, “so I should be going, let you get inside.”

  Again, she lifted her hands, this time making it all the way to shoulder height. “It was good seeing you, though.”

  Matching the tentative gesture, I extended both hands, taking a step closer.

  “Yeah, it was nice surprise.”

  The gap between us disintegrated as we both moved in. Making it just barely close enough for our hands to encircle each other’s shoulders, we tapped out a quick hug before separating.

  “I don’t know what your schedule is like these days,” Mira said, taking a step backward toward the Honda, “but I still have the same number. Hit me up if you’re around sometime?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The woman working the register at the dollar store in Santee had not wanted to look at Byrdie. Or ring up his purchases. Or even share the same air as him.

  Making no effort to hide the mix of fear and disdain permeating her, she had visibly recoiled at the sight of him standing before her. Turning at the waist, she’s peered back over her shoulder, beseeching any of her male coworkers to come and take her place.

  Finding none in sight, she had only then begrudgingly done her job, scanning the items in as fast as she could and throwing them into a plastic bag. Without even bothering to charge him for it, she left the wad of crumpled bills he threw down lying atop the conveyor belt, counting them from afar before snatching up the correct change and placing it down on the small shelf usually reserved for those writing checks.

  Start to finish, the entire interaction took less than a minute, though Byrdie can still feel indignation sitting just beneath the surface. It combines with the soreness and swelling from earlier, the sunburn from being left lying in the desert for hours, and the intense hatred for everything and everyone in his life at the moment.

  Together it forms a potent mixture. An explosive cocktail needing only the slightest spark to ignite him and everything in his orbit.

  “Bitch,” Byrdie mutters, standing in front of the cracked glass in the park restroom just outside of Santee. A space constructed of concrete block painted white, the outside sun streaming in is so bright it makes everything seem like it is glowing.

  Which only causes the headache he’s been carrying all day to intensify.

  Stripped bare to the waist, he can admit that he isn’t in his best shape. Never has he been accused of being a handsome man, but even at that, the events of the last week are apparent.

  Starting with the encounter with Kyle Clady a week before, some of the resulting swelling persisted. Same for the mottled bruising that swept in a crescent from his forehead to his jawline.

  Injuries that are now completely obscured, hidden beneath the marks left behind by the battle with Ringer earlier in the day.

  The most severe of them sits right at his hairline, a gouge three-quarters of an inch across, a third of that as deep. On either side of it the skin is left gapping open, a fish mouth gasping for air.

  From it has spilled enough blood to paint the entire right side of his face and a wide swath of his hair. The former he’d been able to strip away somewhat before going into the store, the rest of it now staining an uneven pyre of cotton balls in the bottom of the restroom trash can.

  As for his hair, he’d done his best to wash it clean under the faucet, standing and letting the water go until it ran clear down into the drain. Even at that, faint pink droplets run down his face and onto his chest. They race across the assortment of dark bruises that cover his stomach and ribcage, injuries that look like the handiwork of Ringer’s boots, most likely delivered once he was on the deck.

  The mere thought of such a thing causes Byrdie’s lips to twist into a snarl.

  And explains at least part of how he was rendered unconscious for such a length of time.

  The actions of a coward. Of someone not fit to lead the Wolves. Someone that would do whatever they had to to cling to a spot they knew they weren’t worthy of.

  Content with the initial cleanup job on his head and face, Byrdie again turns on the water. He lets it run as cool as the public faucet will get before cupping his hands beneath it and lifting them to his lips.

  Drawing in the lukewarm liquid, he winces slightly as it touches his swollen gums. Swishing it from side to side, he can feel a couple of his teeth shifting.

  Another job that began with Clady, was capitalized on by Ringer.

  More wrath pushes to the surface as Byrdie spits the water out. Stained red, flecks of dried blood go with it, swirling in the sink before disappearing down the drain. Twice more he performs the cycle, giving up on it long before it is free of any bloody residue.

  There is no point. The only goal in stopping by the restroom was to prevent what had happened at the dollar store from happening again. To somehow contort himself into something that won’t immediately cause people to pull back.

  To allow him to continue on with what he now needs to do.

  Digging down into the plastic sack he was given a few minutes earlier, Byrdie snatches up a vial of ibuprofen. Flipping the top off, he pours a handful into his mouth and dry swallows them before going back in for a plain black t-shirt.

  Tugging it on over his head, he can feel the collar go damp as it passes over his wet hair, though he pays it no mind.

  A minute or two on the road toward his next destination and it will be dry anyway.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There is a Starbucks a single block down from St. Mary’s. The usual menagerie of green signage and charcoal gray construction, it is the standard display, as recognizable in America today as McDonald’s or Coca-Cola.

  Every bit as recognizable was the line snaked out around the side of the building. No matter that it was half past five on a Sunday afternoon, the omnipresent crowd was still there in force, all of them looking to get their seasonal pumpkin spice latte before it soon disappeared for another year.

  Exactly the reason why I chose to roll right on past.

  The search for an acceptable place to have
a quiet conversation had taken an extra six minutes. Ten percent of an hour spent in painful awkwardness, Valerie nor I knowing how much English our newest charge spoke, opting to remain silent. Fran and Inina sitting in the backseat, neither saying a word in any language.

  Time that turned out to be a worthwhile investment as we now all sit huddled around an outdoor table at a place called SD Buzzed. Sounding like a moniker better suited for one of the many medical marijuana dispensaries popping up around the city in the last year, it is the anti-Starbucks in every way.

  Bright green has been swapped out for orange and yellow. Metal tables and chairs have been exchanged for wooden implements worn smooth by time and use. Coffee costs what it should, the total bill coming in just over five dollars.

  And – most importantly – there is not another soul along the handful of tables lining the front of the place.

  Sitting with my back to the window, I lean forward, elbows balanced on my knees. To my right, the sun has started to descend into the Pacific, blessedly taking some of its heat with it. Out front, a lazy trickle of traffic rolls by, nobody seeming to have much interest in the derelict establishment.

  In my hand is a small decaf, the mere thought of adding caffeine to the assortment of emotions and chemicals I have pushing through me enough to spike my heart rate. Around the table, the three women have all opted for some variety of the real thing.

  Straight black for the two older women, a latte for Valerie.

  “Like I said back at the church,” Valerie opens, “this is Inina. She has been living in San Diego for almost ten years now, attending St. Mary’s the entire time.”

  Picking up on the unstated, I nod my head. I haven’t had the chance to share with Valerie yet what Father Wagner said, figuring that will have to come out in the course of conversation.

  As with so many things this week, adapting on the fly to conditions far less than ideal.

  “It’s very nice to meet you. Thank you so much for talking to us today.”

  Across from me, a woman that looks to be in her sixties presses her lips together and bows the top of her head. A series of fine lines appear around her mouth and eyes as she does so, creasing her dark brown skin. Despite most of her chin-length hair still being quite dark, as her head dips I can see the scalp along her middle part to be heavily streaked with gray.

  The results of either frequent dye jobs or late onset aging.

  “You’re welcome,” she says. Her voice is heavily accented, each word spoken almost phonetically. “Valerie said your wife worked with Chuukese.”

  Beside me, I can sense Valerie tense slightly. It is a response I’m sure to the story she used to get us here, invoking my Mira as a ruse.

  One she needn’t worry about. If alluding to her in order to figure out why she was killed is necessary, so be it.

  “She did,” I correct. I make no attempt to hide the sadness tinging my features, an automatic response I don’t foresee fading anytime in the near future. “She passed away last week.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Inina replies. Again, she presses her lips into a tight line before lifting her coffee, using it as a small buffer, buying us all a few seconds.

  Thus far, our entire interaction has been a touch difficult. This woman probably agreed to meet for coffee under the auspice of helping her fellow congregation members. To this point, all she’s gotten is a few awkward exchanges and a bit of tense silence.

  “Thank you,” I answer. “That’s actually why we were hoping to speak with you. Before she passed, my wife had been working with Fran here and was just starting to uncover how bad things are for COFA migrants coming into the country.”

  Lifting her gaze back to meet mine, Inina nods. “Yes. Very bad.”

  “And, well, I was hoping to maybe figure out some way to help,” I reply. “It meant a lot to her. Would mean a lot to me if I could keep it going in her honor somehow.”

  I don’t like lying to her in the slightest, but it is already clear that this woman is uncomfortable. Any of the lighthearted mirth she exhibited exiting the church with Valerie and Fran has faded. Whatever walls she must have insulated herself with over the last decade are fast rising, natural defense mechanisms kicking in.

  Telling her about what happened to Mira, to Dr. Hoke, will only make that worse.

  “That’s very nice,” Inina replies. “There are a lot of people that could use some help.”

  Pushing my coffee forward a few inches, I fold my forearms over one another and rest them on the front edge of the table. “That’s what I’ve heard. People looking to finish their education, or-“

  “No,” Inina says, cutting me off. Her voice is much sharper than before, both of the Ogos snapping their attention her direction. “People are sick. Very sick. That’s why I agreed to come get coffee. If you can help, if anybody can help, we need them to do so.”

  Another pang of guilt for lying to this woman rises within me. She accepted our invite solely in the name of helping her friends.

  My reasons for extending the offer are far less noble.

  Taking a moment to let the strength of her comment settle, to allow it to resonate, to let her to know I heard it, I ask, “Are you sick?”

  Not once does she turn away. Not as her blinking increases or moisture rises to the corners of her eyes.

  “Of course, I’m sick. We all are.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The day had started so promisingly. Seated on the veranda of her top floor penthouse apartment, Elsa Teller had chased away last night’s martinis with this morning’s mimosas. Matching them in a perfect one-to-one ratio, she’d made it through three, enjoying the sunrise and the last puffs of cool air for the day, when her damn phone had to ring.

  Yet another of the unending reminders that while she might sometimes be able to pretend that the salary she is given is for her work, the reality is it is for her time.

  Every last second of it.

  Ten hours later, Teller feels only nominally further along than she did when getting that first phone call. The original impetus behind it is still sitting at the forefront of her thoughts, the very reason she is currently tucked behind the wheel of a rented Ford Focus.

  A far cry from what she is used to driving, the vehicle was the smallest and oldest thing on the Avis lot at the San Diego airport. Meant to match the sweatpants and ballcap she is wearing, it is all part of a cultivated look. A disguise thrown together for a foray out into the field, a task she despises with every fiber of her being.

  Propped in the middle console, her phone directs her toward the address she programmed in upon leaving the rental lot. With any luck, this little trek will take no longer than a few minutes, a quick swing through to check on a few things.

  And - more importantly - cover her own ass.

  Once their initial back-and-forth had subsided earlier, Ringer had gone through the proper paces. He’d backed off his original stance of refusing to stand down on the Ogo house. In a matter of just moments, he’d transitioned from overt hostility to borderline apologetic, pulling up short of saying the words, but nudging right up to them.

  So much so that every internal indicator Teller began to flash at once. Years of working as a political fixer had not only instilled in her the skill to say whatever was necessary with a straight face, they had also gifted her with the infallible ability to know when she was being lied to.

  The marked shift in the man’s demeanor had occurred the instant she mentioned bringing in a professional. An admission spilled only through the confluence of anger and mimosa, the expectation had been that Ringer would escalate in kind. He would continue bellowing, trying in vain to save face, before eventually stalking off.

  Never before had she squared off with a motorcycle gang, but she knew human nature well enough to know how these things work.

  Especially when the person standing across from her was a man practically oozing misplaced machismo.

  Had he done so, Teller would not
have thought twice. She would have gotten off the phone and called Sven to inform him the path had been cleared.

  By taking things in another direction entirely, choosing to feign compliance, he had instead raised her suspicion.

  Suspicion that now has Google Maps informing her to make one final right onto the neighborhood street in Chula Vista. Far outside the circles she normally operates in, there is no question she has never been here before. As far as she can recall, the closest she’s ever ventured to it is the freeway a half-mile behind her, pushing through on her way to Coronado or headed south to the border.

  Two things motivate the people she works for. Money and votes. Items that can either get them into office or help to keep them there.

  Communities like Chula Vista hold neither. The income in the area resides a full standard deviation below the county average and voter turnout numbers trend even lower.

  And without a professional reason to come near the place, there damned sure would never be a personal one.

  That singular thought rises to the fore as Teller eases toward her destination. Placing the Focus in the center of the street, she rolls forward slowly. Hat pulled low, blonde hair tucked up under it, she lifts her shoulders slightly, using the hood on her sweatshirt to further obscure her from view.

  Head aimed straight ahead, she darts her gaze to either side. Scanning every single car parked along the road, she doesn’t bother glancing to the houses beyond or even the stray person out walking on the sidewalk.

  None of them hold any potential threat, and therefore no concern to her.

  Ringer had said he would pull his men off the house long enough to let her contact get inside, but she hadn’t believed him. At least not enough to confidently call Sven and give him the green light.

  Making her way to the end of the street, Teller hooks a left. Traveling down a couple of blocks, she whips a quick U-turn in the intersection and goes straight back, traveling the length of the street in the opposite direction.