by Harvey, JM
Val’s eyes dropped to the gun in his hand and the rage leeched out of him as suddenly as it had come. He needed to get the hell out of there before he did something he’d regret. Before he killed someone.
Number eight.
Val threw the truck into gear and rolled toward the gate. The teenager who had done all the talking was gone, but his doped-up partner was still on duty. He stood flatfooted in front of the gate as Val approached, making no move to open it or get out of the way. That was okay with Val; he’d just let himself out.
Val punched the gas. The tow truck’s four rear tires bit into the gravel, shooting it forward and sending rooster tails of loose stone pinging off the sheet metal of the trucks and motorcycles parked around the clubhouse.
The skinny guard’s reaction time was iceberg-slow. Probably because of all the dope he’d smoked. He dove out of the way at the last moment, belly flopping on the gravel, eating a face-full of rock a split second before the truck hit the gate, buckling it like a coat hanger, exploding it off its hinges and into the street. Val rolled right over it, cutting the steering wheel hard to the left, heading south toward the highway. He laughed as he looked in the rearview at the kid rising from the gravel, dusting himself off, his mouth bloody, but the laughter died fast. Garland and Jasper Smith were anything but funny.
The gold coins and the cash. Val hadn’t thought about Lamar and Lemuel’s stash in years. Fifteen million dollars, Garland had said. That sounded high, but it was possible. And with the rumor going around that Val had the cash, creeps and killers like Garland and Jasper would be crawling out of the baseboards to make a grab for it. Val had to go to the cops.
Right. And tell them what? That the Suttons suspected that he had stolen Lamar and Lemuel’s hoard? That might get the DPD brass down at the Jack Evans Building thinking the same thing. The upper echelons of the Dallas Police Department had no love for Valentine. And what if someone leaked the information to the press? Those guys would love another shot at Val, especially with a story about fifteen million dollars cached by a pair of murdering thieves, the modern day equivalent of pirate treasure.
Val was still a half-mile from the highway when his train of thought was interrupted by a black Chevy Suburban that shot out of a side road directly in front of him. It screeched to a stop straddling the yellow line.
Val stomped the brake to the floorboard. The tow truck’s front wheels weaved and skidded as the rear end tried to flip around to take the lead. He barely managed to keep it under control as burning rubber boiled up from the tires in black clouds. The tow truck skidded to a stop just three feet from broadsiding the Suburban. Val’s hands were strangling the steering wheel and his heart was thudding in his chest. That had been too damn close. What the hell was that idiot thinking?
But it wasn’t one idiot, it was four. Four men in dark suits and ties who scrambled out of the SUV with guns in their hands, all of which were aimed straight at Val. They rushed the truck. One of them ran right up to the driver’s side window, so close that he sprayed the glass with spittle when he screamed.
“Police! Police! Out of the truck!”
Valentine sat frozen for a moment, but the guns and the screaming finally got him moving. You couldn’t argue with a quartet of handguns. He did as instructed; killed the truck’s engine, opened the door and climbed out carefully, hands at shoulder height.
Another SUV pulled in directly behind the tow truck, kissing close. Three more men and one woman got out of it, all brandishing guns. That brought the gun count up to eight.
Snow White and the Seven Pistoleros.
“On your face! On your face!” the first guy sprayed more spittle as he screamed the order.
Val dropped to his knees and went flat on the dirty concrete, arms and legs spread wide.
“Are you armed?” the guy demanded, keeping his distance, his gun trained on Val’s head.
“There’s a gun in my right front pocket,” Val replied as calmly as he could, but the guy didn’t react calmly.
“Gun! Gun! Gun!” he screamed and then there was a pistol barrel stuffed in Val’s right ear.
Val looked sidelong up the gun barrel to find that it was the female cop. She had a narrow face and a wide mouth. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of Ray-Bans. She gave him a sliver of a smile. It didn’t make her look any friendlier.
“No sudden moves or I’ll dust out your skull, partner,” she said calmly as she crouched down beside him. She swiftly slid her free hand over his butt and hips, cleaning out his pockets as she went. She tossed his comb, some loose change, the Target receipt, and his wallet into an untidy pile on the concrete then fished the gun out of his pocket, giving him a shot in the balls with the little pistol’s stubby barrel as she did it. Police brutality in action. She stood and backed away.
“Gun clear,” she said as she tucked her own pistol into a TV cop’s shoulder holster. With smooth efficiency, she shucked the .25’s clip and checked the chamber before dropping the pistol into her coat pocket. As the rest of the cops milled around, yakking excitedly, she stooped and picked up Val’s wallet, thumbed it open, glanced at it briefly, then closed it and put it in the same pocket as the gun. “On your feet, Mr. Justice.”
Val stood. He was dirty and gritty from the road, but he didn’t dare dust himself off. The female cop had stowed her weapon, but her buddies hadn’t.
“Who are you, and what’s this about?” Val asked.
The woman didn’t reply immediately. She waited until one of the other cops, a squared off brick of a man with a head like a cinderblock, joined them.
“This is Sheriff’s Deputy Erath of the Special Tactics Unit,” she said as cinderblock-head scrutinized Val from head to toe. Erath frowned, obviously not liking what he saw. The woman continued, “I’m Detective Gruene, Dallas Police Department’s Gang Unit. What were you doing at the Confederate Syndicate’s clubhouse?” she asked then continued before he could answer. “Did you see Garland Sutton there?”
Val nodded. “Garland was there. With Jasper Smith.”
Gruene grinned then turned to the other six cops and bellowed, “That’s a go! Saddle up! Let’s roll!” She tossed Val’s wallet to the ground at his feet, turned and rushed back to her SUV. The others did the same, except for Erath. He stayed put, staring at Val, his gun slack in his right hand.
“So, you’re Vicious Valentine,” he said. “You sure don’t look like much.” He had a nasal Chicago accent and a Yankee’s abrupt demeanor.
“Opinions vary,” Val replied. That was the second time in one day that someone had used the ‘Vicious’ moniker. It didn’t get better with repetition.
“Want to tell me what you were doing talking to Garland?”
Val shrugged. “Catching up on old times?”
Erath grinned in an unfriendly way. “You know, it’s always the smart asses that end up losing teeth.” He sounded like he’d be happy to make that happen.
“Henry!” the female cop, Detective Gruene, leaned out of the SUV’s front passenger window and yelled, “Let’s go!” But Erath continued to eye Val like road-kill for a moment before he finally turned and walked away.
“Be seeing you,” the deputy called over his shoulder.
In a matter of seconds the whole crew was blasting off down the road.
Val stooped and collected his things from the pavement as he stared after the dwindling shapes of the SUVs racing toward the Syndicate clubhouse. The Special Tactics Unit, Sheriff Swisher’s goon squad, rolling seven-deep with a DPD gang detective riding shotgun. That could mean only one thing: they were serving a fugitive warrant on old man Sutton, but even with a warrant, they needed to be sure Garland was in the clubhouse before they kicked the doors in.
Val grinned. Maybe the STU would take care of Garland and Jasper Smith for him? Those STU guys had a reputation that made Val look like a pansy. They killed more suspects than they arrested.
But what could Garland possibly have done to warrant the attention of
the STU? That part didn’t quite make sense. Garland was a small timer. He wasn’t even smart. He had spent most of his life in prison for chicken-shit robberies and small time dope deals. The time between jolts he’d spent boozing, doping and knocking-up his wife with one wild-assed kid after another. In short, Garland just wasn’t special enough for the Special Tactics Unit.
Val glanced at his watch. It was almost 4:00 PM. He needed to collect his children and get home before his wife got off work. If she ever found out that he’d spent his afternoon playing cowboys and bikers with a bunch of convicts…he didn’t even want to think about that.
When it came right down to it, Victoria scared him way more than Jasper, Garland and the entire Confederate Syndicate MC put together.
13
Victoria found out that your life doesn’t flash before your eyes in the last seconds before death, at least not for her. The film clip that whipped past her mind’s eye as the bomb’s fuse sputtered down to zero was a gruesome montage of her body parts being blasted across half of Oak Cliff. She didn’t know what Lieutenant Felix Aransas saw, but it couldn’t have been much better. For a heartbeat they both just stood there waiting to die, and then Felix dropped to his knees and reached for the bomb.
“No!” Victoria screamed. The fuse was only centimeters away from the steel end-cap and she could guess what was packed inside: a pound or more of black powder and some kind of shrapnel, probably nails or metal washers. By the time Aransas had picked it up and cocked his arm to throw it the bomb would have detonated.
Victoria had been one hell of a forward on the A&M soccer team. Leading scorer for three years running. That skill was about to be put to the test. As Aransas’ hand began to close around the pipe bomb, she stepped around him, planted her bare right foot and kicked the bomb with her left as hard as she could, pivoting hard, getting her hip into it, aiming for a bullet-pocked Ford Expedition that had been abandoned nose-in at the curb twenty feet away. It felt like kicking a cinderblock. A shriek of pain rocketed up her shin as her big toe popped like a Popsicle stick, but the bomb sped off in the right direction, skittering across the asphalt trailing a ribbon of sulfurous smoke, heading straight for the Expedition.
Too slow! It was moving too damned slow! At any moment it would detonate and send a hurricane of metal straight through her and Aransas and into the rank of officers barricaded behind their patrol cars. Fortunately, most of those officers would survive. She and Aransas would have to be cleaned off the pavement with a squeegee.
But Aransas didn’t want to die either. Still in a crouch, he wrapped his arms around her thighs, spun them both around and shoved off like a football tackle hitting a skid-dummy, lifting her clear of the ground and whiplashing her upper body hard enough to crack her spine. He dove for the street directly behind the armored vehicle, pile-driving Victoria into the pavement, cracking her forehead against the asphalt. A light bulb popped inside her skull and for a moment her limbs turned liquid and the world swam out of focus. She barely felt Aransas clambering atop her, shielding her with his body, crushing her face-first into the asphalt.
The pipe bomb detonated with a thunderclap and a flash of lightning. The ground heaved under them and a shockwave of hot air sucked the breath from Victoria’s lungs. The Armadillo shivered as metal shrapnel racketed off its steel flanks and Aransas stiffened with a gasp then spat a string of four letter words directly into her ear. Words that were cut off by another explosion as the Expedition’s gas tank erupted into a tower of burning fuel that rained bits of burning rubber and shredded metal into the street.
A long silent moment passed as Victoria lay prone, ears ringing, fingernails clawing at the asphalt, feeling Aransas’ heart thudding against her backbone.
Someone moaned, “I’m hit.”
Victoria twisted her head around, scraping her forehead on the pavement, and managed to peer under Aransas armpit at the line of battle-scarred blue-and-whites. She couldn’t see the wounded officer, but she saw many unwounded ones peering warily over hoods and trunk lids. She could only hope that no one was seriously injured.
“Damn, that hurts,” Aransas said, his breath humid in her ear.
“Let. Me. Up,” Victoria wheezed, unable to breathe, but Aransas was too keyed up to pay any attention.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he yelled in her ear without budging. “You are crazy!”
“Let. Me. Up,” she tried again, barely able to whisper, then jabbed him hard in the ribs with her elbow. And again, harder.
“Ow! Hey!” He rolled off of her and sat up, his legs stretched out before him. A puddle of blood quickly formed under his right thigh where she could see his pants leg had been torn by shrapnel. He pressed both hands into the wound, but that didn’t do much to slow the flow.
Victoria pushed herself to her knees, sucking in air like a woman rescued from drowning, her bruised ribs screaming in protest with every breath.
Aransas grinned at her. “I love you,” he laughed.
“Floor two clear!” someone shouted from inside the house.
“Floor one clear!” a voice echoed.
Victoria stood gingerly, favoring her good foot. Her knees felt weak, her hands were trembling and her big toe was throbbing like an abscessed tooth. Worst of all she had broken three fingernails off at the quick and her Dolce & Gabbana suit was in ruins. And she knew she’d never replace it. When she and Val went clothes shopping they rarely strayed from the toddler section.
“Help me up,” Aransas said, thrusting a hand up at her. Victoria glanced at the blood dripping from his wounded leg and brushed his hand aside.
“Stay where you are, Felix. I didn’t save your life just to watch you bleed out on the pavement.” Victoria shucked her jacket and dropped to her knees beside Aransas. She grabbed the two sides of the rip in his uniform pants and tore it open wider. An ugly two-inch gash pulsed blood. There were probably a half dozen first aid kits in the cars around her, but none were handy. Screw it, she thought, her suit was ruined anyway. She grabbed the cuff of her white silk blouse and gave it a yank. The shoulder seam separated easily. She tugged it down over her wrist then ripped the other sleeve free. A hundred and fifty dollar blouse turned into a tank top.
She folded the first sleeve into a rough square, pressed it against the wound then tied the other sleeve around the improvised bandage. Aransas grunted as she snugged down the knot and tied a tight bow. She rocked back on her heels to admire her handiwork. It wouldn’t win any merit badges, but it had slowed the bleeding dramatically.
“My hero,” Aransas said, grinning at her. “Now help me up.” He held out his right hand again. Victoria didn’t bother to argue with him; men always had to prove how tough they were. She stood, grabbed his hand and managed to haul him to his feet.
Aransas rocked on his good leg, gripping Victoria’s shoulder hard enough to make her wince.
“Team one Coming out!” someone yelled from inside the house.
With Aransas using her as a crutch, they hobbled out from behind the Armadillo just as SWAT Team One exited the dope house’s front door in single file. They dropped off the splintered edge of the porch one by one, all six moving on their own two feet though one of them was limping and another was cradling a bloody hand. There was no sign of Birch.
“Team two coming out!” another voice shouted and seven more men came through the door, all apparently unwounded. Six of them were cops dressed in blue jumpsuits and gas masks; the seventh was a civilian in his fifties with chicken-skinny legs and a potbelly dressed only in dingy boxer shorts. He had a wild mess of black hair that merged with a matted beard shot through with gray. His eyes were streaming from the teargas, his hands cuffed behind his back. A pair of uniformed officers trotted forward and took possession of him as SWAT Team Two headed for the Armadillo and their wounded commander.
Still no Jack.
Aransas released his grip on Victoria’s shoulder and leaned heavily against the Armadillo as the twelve SWAT cops
stopped in front of him. Only two of the team removed their headgear. The team sergeants, Victoria guessed though their blue jumpsuits gave no indication of rank. Both of them were older, mid-forties and drenched in sweat.
Jack Birch still hadn’t reappeared.
One of the sergeants started to say something, but Victoria cut him off. “Where the hell is Detective Birch?”
The sergeant glanced grimly her way. “I saw him right before the upstairs blew, but not after. Things went to hell.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. He might have gone out the back.” He turned to Aransas. “We got multiple suspect fatalities, Lieutenant,” he said. “Need to get the place aired out so we can get an accurate count. Still foggy as hell in there.”
Victoria stopped listening at that point. She stared anxiously at the front door of the ruined house. White tendrils of teargas curled out of the darkness, but nothing stirred beyond it. A minute passed as Aransas and his men conferred without Victoria registering a single word of what they were saying. And then another minute.
“Damn it!” she whirled on them. “You need to get your asses back in there and find him!”
“Victoria—” Aransas began, but stopped mid-sentence, his eyes shifting to the house. Victoria turned and followed his gaze to find Jack Birch standing in the doorway, a pistol hanging from his left hand, his right arm stretched out behind him, lost in the darkness of the dope house. A line of blood was leaking down the left side of his face, dripping a red splatter onto the shoulder of his white shirt, but other than that he looked okay.
Victoria smiled wide enough to crack her jaw as Birch took a step to the left, edging along the sliver of porch the Armadillo had left behind. As he did, he dragged something out of the darkness behind him. Correction, someone. A pale, skinny teenager with ‘Confederate Syndicate’ tattooed in an arch across his chest. The kid had his head ducked low, his face cocked against his hunched shoulder.