Hard Bite
Page 15
***
Doug is on the floor of the van, the weight of Leone's body slumped over him. She groans.
"Leone! You hit?"
She lifts off of him. "I'm okay." She sits up and gives him a hand off the floor.
Doug looks out the shattered windshield. The tactical unit van in front looks untouched, and the one behind got the advantage real quick. Only the handicap van is pocked with shot. Men from the other vehicles unfold from their spots, cautiously looking around.
"Everybody alright?" Doug shouts. "Any men down?"
"Okay here Detective."
"No damage in backup. How 'bout you?"
"O'Hearn's bleeding!"
"My arm. Think it got grazed."
"Roll call."
The men, ten in all, shout their names.
"All accounted for," Doug shouts back. He shoulders open the door of the van.
Two men lie dead on the tiny hill beside the on-ramp. One of them, naked to the waist, lies upside-down; he must have twisted and fallen after getting tapped in the head. The man hangs like an inverted Christ, arms splayed wide, the sling of the rifle caught on his arm. To Doug, the tats on the sniper look familiar. The name San Judas Todeo is inked over his collarbones. Beneath is a full-chest tattoo of a saint holding a club. Doug remembers something from a distant file. Patron saint of lost causes. The tats belong to Mateo Malalinda. Beside Mateo is his spotter.
"Doug, do you read me?" The Captain's voice comes over the van's radio.
"Yes, Captain, I read you."
"Backup is on the way. What happened?"
"Ambushed by a sniper at the on-ramp, sir."
"Are you hurt?"
"No sir. Two guys dead. One looks like Mateo Malalinda to me. Our side got a man down in the van behind."
"How the hell did they know which ramp to stake?"
"I don't know. Maybe they had teams at every one around the jail.
"What about Drayhart? What's the—"
A voice in the background yells, "A bunch of women showed up at Elysian Park. Unarmed. No drugs. They faked us."
The Captain's voice drowns out as patrol cars and ambulances screech to a halt.
***
Room 204 is humid and close, even with an obsolete AC unit chattering on HIGH in the window. Without turning on the light, Cinda tiptoes across the well-trafficked indoor/outdoor carpet, throws her key on the nightstand and inhales the odor of bleach and cheap air freshener—the universal scent of a low-rent motel room. She's lived in this freeway motel for three days, and tomorrow she'll move again, If anyone wants to find her, they'll have to work for it. Kicking off her heels, she flops onto the bed with its sadsack orange spread and turns on the TV.
…ambushed at the Mission Road 5 on-ramp. The animal is missing. A city-wide sweep for gangmembers is underway. If you have information…
Cinda jabs at the remote and brings up another channel to catch the news report in full. She jabs it again, turning on snowy static. That's all the channels it gets, so she tosses it. In the eerie, bluish light radiating from the snowy screen, she tornados through the room slamming things into a suitcase. The hotel mirror flashes a reflection of her face, smooth and bloodless as marble, silver streaks of sweat on her cheekbones. Abandoning the key, she flees with her bag. The door lock clicks behind.
Dawn is due any minute. The Firebird revs full-throated in the direction of downtown. On Mission Road, she slows and looks carefully for signs of law enforcement, but serenity reigns. Cinda bites her lip, praying the crime scene has already been cleaned and collected. She cruises Mission Road, past the freeway on-ramp, pulls a U-turn, and makes a slow comeback. Still no sign of the night's carnage; yes, the circus has moved on. She searches the sidewalks—cracked and uneven, weeds sprouting on all sides.
The Firebird windows power-down, and Cinda calls softly, "Sid… Sid." By her third pass, a clump of ferns by the sidewalk heave and shake. A beige and brown creature darts out, trembling. The car brakes, the passenger door swings wide. Sid cannonballs onto the front seat. The Firebird roars up the on-ramp, and they join a stream of cars heading north, away from the hard bite of Los Angeles.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A writer faces the page alone, but it takes a bunch of people to get a novel out to the world. My deepest appreciation goes to, in chronological order: Glenn Gray, Todd Robinson of Thuglit, DZ Allen, formerly of Muzzleflash, Cindy Crosmus of Yellow Mama, Gin E. L. Fenton, artist, David Cranmer and Denise Mix of Beat to a Pulp, Albert Tucher, Anthony Neil Smith, Aldo Calcagno of Powder Burn Flash, Christopher Grant of Twist of Noir, The Gas Man and Brownie, David Barber, David Backer, Lindsey Goddard, Brent Garland, Nan Vaughn, Linda Guss, Phyllis Ungerleider, Mary Ann La Russa, Renata Sdao, Joy Trifiletti, Jodi MacArthur, Frank Bill, Keith Rawson, Russ Adair, James Reasoner, Brian Lindenmuth and Sandra Ruttan of Spinetingler Magazine, Patti Abbott, Sophie Littlefield, Michael J. Solender, Chris Holm, Nick Mamatas, Andy Henion, Charles Gramlich, Alan Griffiths, Paul Brazill, Col Bury, Nigel Bird, Kristen Weber, Brian Drake, Rebecca Forster, Jenny Jensen and Annie Murphy. Heartfelt thanks to Allan Guthrie and Kyle MacRae of Blasted Heath.
Also by Anonymous-9
The 1st Short Story Collection
Award-winning noir, horror and satire, including 'Hard Bite,' the short story that inspired the novel
About the author
Anonymous-9 is the pen name of Elaine Ash, a Los Angeles-based book editor. The name was adopted back in 2007 with the publication of her first experimental fiction, in case it wasn't accepted. When short stories started receiving award nominations those fears were put to rest, but the pen name stuck. Contact Elaine/Anonymous-9 via her author page at Blasted Heath or visit her website at Anonymous-9.com. She loves to hear from readers and she doesn't bite.
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