The Devil's Elixir

by Raymond Khoury

  I slid into the slow lane and eased off the gas a little, and sure enough, my two groupies suddenly didn’t seem like they were in such a rush anymore and followed suit. Again, some of my harmless tailgaters tended to do the same, usually because they worried I knew something they didn’t and had slowed down for a good reason. In those circumstances, though, the cars usually crept up closer to me—basic wave theory, but let’s not go there right now—but in this case these guys hung back and kept the same big gap between us. Again, not conclusive, but something about these guys didn’t sit well with me.

  I sped up again and changed lanes, and so did they.

  The goon-dar was blaring away in my ears.

  I felt a small kick of excitement. If anyone was following me, it had to be the same crew, although it didn’t make much sense to me why they’d be doing that. I did a quick run-through of what we knew about their actions so far. They’d grabbed a couple of scientists. They’d come after Michelle, twice. Why follow me? Michelle was dead. I wondered if they were after something she had, something they think I might be able to lead them to. They’d taken her laptop. Maybe they hadn’t been able to get past its password. But then something much more likely occurred to me. Maybe they didn’t know she was dead. Maybe they didn’t even know that she was hit. If so, then maybe they were still trying to find her to get whatever it is they want from her. And if that was the case, then that was one way to flush them out—although if these guys were part of the original gang, which seemed to make sense, flushing them out was no longer a problem. They were right there, within reach. I just had to make sure I didn’t screw up on the nabbing.

  By now, I’d reached the ramp that banked off to the right and linked up to the Martin Luther King Jr. Freeway. I took it. The sedan did the same.

  I stayed in the slow lane.

  One guess as to what they did.

  My mind raced ahead, sifting through my options. I was pretty sure they were tailing me, and if so, I wanted them. Badly. I could see two immediate problems I’d need to overcome. First off, I needed to find somewhere quiet to make my move. These guys had shown repeatedly that they didn’t mind spilling innocent blood, and there was no way I was going to risk doing anything where some bystanders could get hurt. This was exacerbated by my second problem, which was that I didn’t know San Diego at all, and this wasn’t something my GPS was going to solve for me. It would help, though, and I jabbed it on and hit the Map button before pulling out my phone and calling Villaverde.

  I kept the phone low and out of sight and put it on speakerphone just as he picked up.

  “I think I’ve got a tail,” I told him. “Two guys in a maroon sedan. I’m on 94.”

  Signs for the airport loomed ahead, and only stoked my anger.

  “Can you get a read on their plates?” he asked.

  I glanced in the mirror. “No, they’re too far back.”

  “Okay, um,” he stammered, “let me—how do you wanna play this? We can set up a roadblock and—”

  “No, it’d take too long,” I interjected. “I don’t want to risk losing these guys or scaring them off.”

  “I hear you, but you can’t face off with them on your own either.”

  “Agreed, but right now we need to figure out where I’m going.”

  I caught a glimpse of the road signs flying past and they confirmed what Villaverde had told me at the onset, about the freeway ending and morphing into F Street. The SDPD’s headquarters was now only a few blocks away. I thought about sticking to the plan and pulling into the department’s parking lot and sneaking around to surprise my guys while they waited for me to leave again, but the thought of making my move with armed backup on a crowded downtown street wasn’t working for me, not with these trigger-happy cyborgs. It didn’t look like I was going to have much of a choice in the matter anyway as I was about to run out of freeway. I was desperate to avoid getting into slower city streets and traffic lights—too many pedestrians and fewer options—but the only off-ramp was onto the San Diego Freeway, heading north.

  I glanced at my GPS screen. The freeway ran north for a mile or so, then banked left and went west briefly, toward the airport, before turning north again. I couldn’t risk taking it, not after having driven all that way south from Villaverde’s office. It would make me look like I was doing a weird big loop, which might tip off my guys and make them bail. So I just sailed by the off-ramp and motored ahead.

  The maroon sedan stayed with me.

  “I’m about to hit F Street,” I informed Villaverde, still playing out the notion of somehow faking them out and doubling back to ambush them while they waited for me to resurface. It was taking root nicely. I quickly explained my idea to him and asked him to think of somewhere away from the crowds where I could face off with them without worrying about collateral damage.

  I was now on F, a wide, one-way street that cut across the downtown area east to west, and I could almost hear Villaverde’s mind whirring away as he processed my request.

  “There’s the Coast Guard facility on Harbor Drive,” he finally said. “I can call ahead and make sure the guard at the gate lets you through and get some of the guys ready to back you up.”

  “No. No Coast Guard or Navy, nothing like that. It might spook them.” I was worried my stalkers might not want to lie in wait for me outside a military base, not in these terror-alert-heightened times, and I really didn’t want to lose them. “Come on, David,” I pressed him. “I’m running out of road.”

  “Hang on.” He went silent for another moment, then said, “Okay, how about the Tenth Avenue Terminal area, down at the harbor? There’s container yards and warehouses and storage tanks, that kind of thing. What do you think?”

  It seemed like a decent option. “Does it make sense that I would have left the freeway where I did if I was originally going there?”

  Villaverde thought about it for a second, then said, “I wouldn’t have necessarily come off the fifteen, but yeah, why not? You’re not way off base. Besides, you’re a visitor here, you’re not expected to know the ideal route to take.”

  I didn’t like hearing that. Plus, I wasn’t sure what they were thinking, or expecting. But the downtown area didn’t look like it was going to offer me what I was looking for, and the harbor sounded better.

  Also, Villaverde’s suggestion of the gate at the Coast Guard facility gave me an idea.

  “Is there a bonded warehouse facility there with a security gate?”

  “Yep, I know where it is.”

  I glanced at the street signs on the next corner. “Okay, I’m just crossing Thirteenth. I need you to guide me to the terminal. And see if you can call the gate and let them know I’m heading their way.”

  Villaverde got to it and told me to take the next left. I tensed up with expectation and turned the wheel while eyeing my rearview mirror.

  Sure enough, the maroon sedan turned in behind me.

  18

  As he sat on a tattered and cracked leather couch across a stained coffee table from Eli Walker, El Brujo felt the rumbling of an oncoming storm echoing through his veins.

  He tried to stay positive as his eyes wandered around the spartan interior of the gang’s clubhouse and the five other bike brothers who were sitting around the room while his ears and his mind remained locked on the phone conversation their leader, the club’s president, was having. The man had, Navarro reminded himself, come through for him before. Several times, in fact. They’d done good business together years earlier—back in the days when Walker and the rest of the narco world knew him as Raoul Navarro, back when he was scheming and scything his way up the kingpin ladder of power and notoriety—and they’d done business of a different kind, also without a hitch, in the last few months. There was no reason to expect Walker to fail—again—this time, but somehow, Navarro couldn’t help but feel the man was going to let him down.

  The clubhouse was next door to the club’s business front, the shop where Walker and his boys built
, sold, and serviced motorcycles of all kinds. Navarro knew these guys had a nice little business going, what with the garage out front gleaming with rich lacquer and expensive chrome. He knew how passionate bikers felt about their rides, especially out here in California, and he knew how much some people were prepared to pay for the outrageous custom bikes people like Walker created for them. Only last week, he’d read about a Hollywood screenwriter whose stolen bike had just been recovered in the Philippines, of all places. It was worth close to a hundred thousand dollars. Navarro knew that a lot of what he saw out front were also worth big bucks, and given that the bikes’ main cost component was labor and that the markups on what went into them were huge, it was an ideal setup through which Walker and his gang could launder the money the gang made from trafficking and selling drugs and guns and the rest of their illegal enterprises.

  The clubhouse itself was not to Navarro’s liking. It reeked of cheapness, what with all the mismatched furniture and tattered walls, to say nothing of the overflowing ashtrays and the stink of stale beer. It was the first time he’d actually been there—Navarro had steered clear of the United States until his rebirth—and he found it odd that for people who were clearly generating a serious amount of cash, Walker and his gang were living like slobs. Navarro understood that it was part of who these guys were, part of their ethos, of the only life they knew, but it was the opposite of what he was used to, the banditos back home who sought to surround themselves with luxury and project wealth and status as soon as they could afford it—wealth that they inevitably lost, wealth that possibly contributed to their downfall. Maybe these guys had it right, living less ostentatiously. Maybe it kept them off the ATF’s radar. Either way, it didn’t matter, he thought. Not if they can deliver what he needed from them.

  He’d know soon enough.

  He glanced at Walker and saw the big man grunt into his phone, and their eyes met. Walker’s expression was still locked somewhere between stone-faced and grave as he fingered his furry goatee with his meaty, calloused fingers and gave Navarro a slight nod of reassurance. Navarro returned the nod, cool and supportive, but in truth, he’d already lost a big chunk of whatever respect he’d ever had for the biker’s abilities from the moment Walker hadn’t recognized him when he’d shown up there with his two aides in tow. Navarro was fully aware that this was an unfair judgment on the big man. The plastic surgeon had done such a great job on Navarro’s face that the narco’s own mother, had she ever stuck around to see her son after giving birth to him, wouldn’t have recognized him. No one did, which was the whole point of going through the long and painful process in the first place. Still, in some perverse way, he’d expected more from Walker. He’d wanted him to recognize him. That would have been a strong testimony to the sharpness of the man’s mind. But Walker, like the handful of people from Navarro’s past that he’d shown himself to, hadn’t caught on to the deception, and given that his stock had been plummeting ever since that first failure at the woman’s house, it didn’t bode well for the biker.

  Navarro hoped the big man wouldn’t sink any further.

  “All right, good work,” he heard Walker say. “Stay on his ass and keep me posted.”

  Walker hung up and looked across at him.

  Navarro met his gaze with a raised eyebrow, inviting an update.

  “My guys are on your fed’s tail,” he informed him. “He’s driving into the city.”

  Navarro nodded his approval, slow and thoughtful, then just said, “Muy bien.”

  19

  Villaverde’s directions were flawless, and it wasn’t long before I reached the huge marine terminal complex and spotted the gate to the bonded warehouse.

  “I’m here,” I told him, still on my BlackBerry’s speakerphone.

  “Okay, you’re all set.”

  There were few cars around and zero pedestrians, which was what I was hoping for. I put my turn signal on early intentionally in order to see how the goons in the maroon sedan would react. They receded in my mirror as they slowed right down to give me some space to let a container truck pass before I could turn in to the storage facility’s entrance, which was across the street from us. As I did, I watched them pull up to the far curb and stop.

  It looked like they were going to wait for me. Which meant they needed me to lead them to something. It had to be Michelle. They were definitely still after her.

  As I waited for the truck to pass, I scanned the facility’s outer perimeter. There was an eight-foot-high chain-link fence around its frontage that wouldn’t be too hard to climb over. I pulled up to the gatehouse and rolled my window down as the security guard lumbered out to meet me. I knew his name was Terry since, moments earlier, I’d listened in to Villaverde on the phone with him. Terry was in his fifties and wasn’t the fittest or the most nimble guy I’d ever seen—the term mammoth did spring to mind—and it was just as well I hadn’t been counting on his being my wingman during my planned sneak and grab.

  “Terry, right?” I showed him my creds, both as a matter of procedure and for the benefit of the watchful eyes up the street. I saw his expression go a bit jittery and quickly added, “Keep your eyes on me and act natural, okay? Just make like you’re asking me what this is all about before you let me in.”

  “Okay.” His eyes were throbbing with tension and he was visibly having a tough time resisting taking a peek over the roof of the LaCrosse to check out the bad guys.

  “Stay with me, Terry,” I reminded him, slow and calm. “Just keep your focus on me and answer my questions without looking their way.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Okay, um—so, what do you want to know?” An Oscar was definitely not in Terry’s future.

  I gave the place a quick sweep and settled on a warehouse to my right. I indicated it with a discreet nod. “I need to leave my car behind that building over there so it’ll be out of sight while I go over the fence and sneak up on the guys who were following me. Okay?”

  He took a second to calm his nerves, then said, “Sure thing.”

  I figured this was enough of a show for my stalkers. “Good.” I flicked a glance at the holstered automatic almost buried under his paunch. “I’m assuming you know how to use that.”

  He grinned, and his hand dropped down to give its grip a small pat. “You bet your ass.”

  The bet your ass was a bit too gung-ho for my liking, but better that than having him go all wobbly-kneed on me if things went sour. “Well, backup’s on its way, so don’t you go and play hero or anything. Just stay sharp, all right?”

  His jowls sagged with disappointment at that, and he gave me a glum, “I hear you.”

  “And don’t look at them when you let me in.”

  Terry nodded again and stepped back to roll the barrier aside for me. I gave him a small nod back as I drove in.

  “I’m in,” I told Villaverde.

  I pulled in behind the warehouse and continued all the way down to its far end, where I parked alongside its wall.

  Villaverde’s voice came back. “I’ve got a Harbor Police black-and-white about three minutes out and another on the way.”

  I picked up the phone and killed the speaker function as I got out of the car. “Keep them back and tell them not to approach until I say so,” I insisted firmly. “Make sure they understand that, David. I don’t want my guys to bolt and I don’t want this to turn into the OK Corral either. These guys like to shoot stuff up.”

  “Copy that. And keep the line open.”

  “Will do.”

  I had to move fast.

  I took off my jacket and chucked it into the car, then pulled out my gun, chambered a round, and flicked the safety off before slipping it back into its holster. Then I set off.

  I trotted down the back of the warehouse until I reached its corner, making sure I couldn’t be seen from the street. There was some tall grass growing at the base of the wire fence that provided a small measure of cover. I’d seen my guys pull up on the other side of the str
eet, but this wasn’t the kind of street people parked on and I didn’t think they’d still be there.

  I peered out and surveyed the area.

  I couldn’t see them at first—then I spotted them. They were parked in the small lot of a marine supplies store, almost directly across from me. The spots were slightly angled, herringbone-style, and the sedan was nose-forward facing toward Terry’s gatehouse—which meant I needed to move farther down the fence before climbing over it if I didn’t want to be scaling it almost in direct view of my goons.

  There was a second warehouse sitting behind the one I was hugging. I nipped back along the wall and away from the street, made sure the goons weren’t looking my way, then sprinted across the gap between the two buildings, staying low. I kept running all the way down until I reached the far corner of the second building, took a cautionary peek behind it, then went around and kept going until I was crouched close to the fence again. I figured there were now a couple of hundred feet between me and them. It was enough.

  As another truck rolled by outside, I crept up to the fence and gave it a little tug to test its rigidity. It was solid, and the diamond shapes formed by the crossed wires were just wide enough to accommodate the tips of my shoes. I stayed low and waited for another truck to trundle by, then I got something even better—a big eighteen-wheeler coming out of the bonded warehouse facility itself. I reckoned it would snare my goons’ attention, and I tensed up, ready to move—and as the truck rumbled past, I took three big strides and leapt onto the gate. I was up it in four quick moves and launched myself over it, landing hard on the sidewalk in a low crouch before scurrying for cover behind the slow-moving truck and rushing across the street in its dusty wake.

  I dove behind a parked car about a dozen cars down from the maroon sedan and paused there to catch my breath, then I peeked out. I could see the guy in the passenger seat, in profile. He was looking dead ahead, toward the gate. I pulled out my gun and darted out, hugging the cars and ducking from one to another in quick, stealthy bursts. I tried to minimize the risk of being spotted by timing my moves to coincide with trucks rolling past, knowing the eyes in the maroon sedan would be distracted by them when they weren’t otherwise fixated on the gate, waiting for me to reappear.