“Yeah, Kilroy.”
“Pay fucking attention. You can be forgiven. They can be forgiven. No one is beyond redemption. No one.”
“Not real sure about that, Kilroy. Some shit you can’t take back.”
“Didn’t say you could, brother, but you can heal. You can do good. You can return balance to the world. Fuck it, you aren’t listening. I know, blind man hippy bullshit, right? But what if I’m correct? Check this. There was a junkie. He sold dope. He pimped. He went to jail. He found a better way. He became Malcolm X and he changed the world. Redemption? I don’t know, but if you give up on the concept . . . fuck, brother. Fuck it. I’m tired. I talk too much. Get me back to the fire, I’m cold.”
I had nothing to say. Mikayla was calling the old man a pussy. She was wrong. Maybe both of them were wrong. Didn’t matter at this point. The last thing I needed was a headful of this shit. I needed a clean mission. Go in, kill all that I came across until Freedom was free. Philosophy was a luxury given to blind men too old to fight. Poet warrior? Intellectual soldier? Those weren’t me. Kill ’em all and let God sort it out was my only way through. Protect my people. Kill theirs. The end.
I stood with my back to the mad platoon.
Cam joined me, staring into the fast moving water. “You ready?”
“I better be.”
“Don’t let the old man get in your head. Word is he was lead gunner with a company that zipped a village in Laos. It fucked him up. He’s also wise. Fido, right?” She let out a small laugh. She was nervous and talking to keep from thinking.
“Fido?”
“Fuck it, drive on.”
IT WAS TIME to move. Time to get Gregor and go to work.
The plan was simple. Cam and her crew were going in from the basement. Lowrie and the cops would use the sound of gunfire as probable cause to go in the front. Gregor and I would find a way in and work our way to the third floor. Sunshine and Kenny would find a roost offering sniper support.
Simple.
No fucking way it could go sideways.
CHAPTER 38
When they kick at your front door, how you gonna come?
With your hands on your head, or on the trigger of your gun?
It was Clash time. I had “The Guns of Brixton” cranked to the point two clicks past distortion. I couldn’t hear the rain pounding on the sheet metal of the Tempest. The Adderall and music had my heart thundering and racing to the beat of Topper Headon’s drums and Paul Simonon’s bass. Easy to forget with Mick Jones’s sweet charm and Joe Strummer’s bad-ass bravado that, without Headon and Simonon, it was senseless noise. Rhythm. The Clash are anger drawn in melody and defined by rhythm.
This is the kind of bullshit you think about when you don’t want to think about the job at hand. I turned off the iPod and tossed it in the glove box. Gregor lowered his binoculars and told me it was time to move.
Getting in was easy. Around the four-story warehouse was a tall cyclone fence topped with barbed wire. A gate opened to give cars and delivery trucks access to the side loading dock. Gregor and I walked in hugging the rear of a white van. The rain was pouring, hiding sound and obscuring sight. At a dumpster we peeled off into the shadows.
Easy is what you look for, yet easy is almost never a good thing. It hides unseen dangers. The white van disgorged three men in tact gear. They climbed the stairs to the loading dock and disappeared into the building. We waited thirty seconds. Nothing in the back area was moving. Just the rain and us. I cupped my hands and lit two cigarettes. We smoked and thought. There was no turning back.
“Let’s go,” I said, dropping my butt to sizzle in the mud.
“Why not.”
And so we crossed the yard and up the steps. Before we could clear the steps, four MS-13 soldiers popped up from behind crates. They had AKs and wild eyes. They yelled at us in Spanish, the gist of which was raise your hands or we splatter the pavement with you. A third man stepped out, laughing and clearly drunk. When he saw the situation he got suddenly angry. Whipping out a revolver, he pointed it at us. He swayed a bit. He aimed at Gregor’s head, snapped back the hammer.
Time froze.
Then the night broke loose in flashes of fire, blood and ruined bone. A hole burst out of the drunken man’s chest. He fell facedown in the muddy water. We didn’t hear the sniper’s shot. The other soldiers looked up quickly, searching for the shooter.
Mistake.
Gregor had his auto shotgun up and blazing. I let rip with my 1911. Two seconds and four lifeless bodies were in the mud.
WE RAN UP the stairs and into a room piled with linens, cases of whiskey, disinfectant douches and insect spray. The old man taking inventory shouldn’t have gone for the gun in his belt. I was at a dead run and hit the side of his face with all the force muscle and momentum could deliver. Something in his skull snapped and he was doing the ragdoll tumble.
THUMPING HIP HOP from upstairs and thunder from the storm covered the noise of the skirmish. Stealth was our best move. Soaking, blood-splattered, and swinging serious firepower, stealth meant sticking to the shadows and hoping for the impossible.
ON THE SECOND floor, we were moving down a narrow hallway when a door opened. A middle-aged man came out, a young—very fucking young—girl under one arm, a boy under the other. They were maybe eleven, Vietnamese, and terrified.
My first shot shattered the john’s left cheek. He was stumbling back when I shot him in the chest. I was firing fast. He fell onto the bed where he had just fucked these children. His blood bloomed red across the sheets.
STEALTH WAS OVER. Gregor grabbed me and we ran. The gunshots brought opening doors. Opening doors brought dead bodies that we sent flying back. Two badasses in Ray-Bans rolled into the hall military style. Trained. Gregor emptied his shotgun into them before they could take aim. Gregor let the long gun hang on its sling and pulled his CZ 75. One move. Smooth.
A Vietnamese woman came out behind us, running with a carving knife. Screaming at us. We weren’t her heroes. I shot her just above her left breast and she dropped. She was screaming but not getting up.
Fido.
At the end of the hall an older Vietnamese man stepped out, pistol to a pretty little girl’s head. Gregor didn’t hesitate, double tapping the man’s head. The pimp was falling before his brain could register he was dead. The girl screamed. She was blood-stained and freaked. No time to comfort her. Move or die.
We hit the second set of stairs. Machine gun fire ripped the jamb, driving us back.
The alarm on my phone went off. Midnight.
Deep under the building, an explosion rocked the structure.
CAM AND HER crew were blown back down the tunnel. Bugs misjudged the amount of C4. Cam searched the debris for survivors. Under a slab of cement lay Bugs, his body crushed, blood running from his mouth and nose. He had a funny smile on his face. He was DOA.
Fido.
Penny was first up through the hole. The basement room was in tatters, cash swirling in the air. They had unknowingly come up in MS-13’s count room.
“All targets down.” Penny looked around the room. “And, it is motherfucking raining money.”
FREEDOM FELT THE explosion as she climbed onto Mike the contractor’s lap. She kissed him. Then used her sharpened hanger to punch a hole in his larynx. Slicing back she took out his carotid artery. Blood sprayed across her face. He was gurgling, holding his neck. She leapt off him and rolled onto the floor. She let out a painful scream, bringing LeJohn through the door. Freedom struck. She severed his left Achilles tendon with a puncture and a pull. The boy screamed as he fell and Freedom was on him. She had his switchblade in her hand and open before he realized she wasn’t trying to help him. His eyes pleaded. She slid the knife between his ribs and into his heart.
OUTSIDE THE BUILDING police sirens wailed. Lowrie radioed for backup. SWAT was twenty minutes out, best case. Andersen, the young officer Moses had dubbed Twenty-six, hit the gas.
“Ready for this, son?” L
owrie asked.
“No, sir.” He led a small phalanx of cop cars roaring toward the MS-13 warehouse.
GREGOR RELOADED HIS auto-shotgun. He crossed himself and ran onto the landing, flooding a steady stream of buckshot up the stairs. “Clear!”
I followed him. On the third floor a teenage boy lay bleeding out. I felt sorry.
Mistake.
The kid fired at me with a 9mm. My hip burned and I stumbled back. The kid’s second shot hit where my head had been. He didn’t have the strength to shoot again. I didn’t have the will to kill him. Time would most likely do that.
LION WAS AN unrepentantly violent man. Freedom remembered the punching she took after he raped her. She was glad he fought back. She slashed his arms. Stabbed his thigh, slicing the femoral artery.
“Bitch, you going to die.”
“No, you are going to die.” He was holding his leg trying to stop the blood when she took out his throat.
Freedom was covered in the blood of her captors. She was looking for more. Kill them all and no one would ever hurt her again. Amethyst came out of a back room. Seeing the blood-saturated walls and carpet she started screaming.
“Shut up.” Freedom was red with blood. It dripped from her pigtails. Amethyst shut up and backed out of the room.
AN RPG HIT the first police car while they were still in motion. The policemen inside were blown to pieces. Lowrie leapt from his car, racked and fired his gauge at the warehouse door as fast as he could pump. A slug took him in the gut.
He went down. Twenty-six dragged him behind an undercover car. They were outgunned.
“Funny place to die.”
“How’s that, sir?”
“As a rookie, this was my beat. Found a woman’s body in dumpster.” He coughed up some blood. “Hooker. No one cared. I did.” More coughing. More blood. “Help me up and let’s get these bastards.”
From the front door, a man knelt and aimed an RPG at the car Lowrie was behind. Before he could launch, a massive hole exploded in his chest. Two men died at his side. No one saw where the sniper was shooting from. Another man grabbed the RPG and ran back into the warehouse. Sunshine punched two large holes through the concrete. Her third shot nailed the man with the RPG. Through the jagged break in the wall she saw him go down, firing the rocket. Inside the room, pimps and johns alike were hit by shrapnel.
The police fired but didn’t enter. Containment. Let SWAT breach this bloodbath.
AN ARMORED CHOPPER flew in hot. Banking, it came back to hover over the front of the building. “This is the FBI,” a loudspeaker boomed with Sanders’s voice. “Come out with your hands in the air and you will not be hurt. There are two ways out, walking with hands on heads or carried in a body bag.”
BY THE TIME Gregor and I hit the third floor landing it was total mayhem. Soldiers were running the other way. My hip was failing so I used the wall to hold myself up. Gregor was kicking open doors. At #14, the room Peter told us was Freedom’s, he paused, waiting for me to catch up. I dropped down, aiming up at the closed door. He kicked it in.
We both froze.
A blood-soaked girl held a switchblade to a bald man’s throat. “Move and he dies.”
“Your choice, girl. I’m Moses, and it’s your move.”
I wasn’t ready for her next action. She sliced the knife across the man’s throat. He fell, gurgling. She stood, a tremble starting to build into a full body shake. She was red and slick from head to toe. Somewhere in a back room girls were crying. I took a step toward her. In a flash the knife was pointed at my gut.
“Baby girl, I killed a lot of people to get you home. Let’s not end it like this.”
“How? Fuck, you could be—”
“I’m not. I’m here for you. Your guardian angel.” She looked me over. I must have been a sad picture. “I ain’t much, but sometimes you have to go with what you got. Now let me get you home.”
“I, I don’t have a home.”
“I’ll find you one. My word to you. Wait, here.” I took the Saint Jude medal off my neck. “A powerfully good man gave this to protect me. I think you need it now.” I stepped forward, medal extended. Something she saw in my eyes convinced her. The knife clattered to the slick floor. I placed the necklace over her head and hugged her to my chest. “This all stops now.” It was a half lie. Some of the pain never left, but I could stop further damage. “My word.”
Holding her, I leaned against the wall for support. “This here is Gregor. Best man I know. Do what he says and we’ll get you out of here.”
“You?” She looked panicked.
“I have to end this bullshit so they never come after you again.” I kissed her blood-smeared forehead. “Get her clear. Take her out the basement,” I said, pulling myself up. The Vics were doing their job and holding the pain off.
“You?” she asked again.
“Penthouse.” Freedom looked at Gregor, still not sure. “Girl, Gregor will die to get you out of here. You stay, and they will want to know about the bodies in there. Now go.” The firmness in my voice did the trick, or maybe she was just out of options. She followed Gregor to the stairway, disappearing down into the chaos. From below I could hear automatic fire. Cam and her crew, I hoped.
Starting up the stairs, I used a fallen AR15 as a cane. From the pocket of my leather I took a flash-bang grenade. I tossed it up onto the fourth floor. After the boom and white light, I swung in. It was a large, open floor. I killed three soldiers before they knew what hit them. Flame fired at me. Blood sprayed from my leg. Only luck kept it from snapping the bone. I dropped the empty .45 and fired the Ruger through the file cabinet the shooter was hiding behind. Blood painted the wall beyond it.
Two men scrambled up a small ladder toward the roof.
I fired my last three shots double action, not taking time to aim.
One died when I blew him off the ladder. The second, guy in a suit, disappeared up onto the roof.
Dropping in a speedloader, I snapped the cylinder shut and went up the ladder. I led with the Ruger as I climbed onto the roof. Rain lashed hard and cruel. Zacarías Araya sat by a fallen, rusted TV antenna. He was holding his gut and bleeding.
“You . . . you fucking gringo. One bitch? All this for her?”
“Something like that.”
“Moses, God’s messenger. Do you think God will remember me?”
“I don’t know.” I pulled myself to a sitting position. Below, the chopper was swirling the rain around. I could see SWAT had arrived and was storming the building from all sides.
“I will be a king in jail. Mara Salvatrucha takes care of its princes. And you, you will be dead. Of this, I will make sure.”
“Fuck you.” I raised the revolver. “Say hi to God.”
I pulled the trigger.
I wanted to rest, just a moment. I had earned some peace. On my back, I stared up at the falling rain.
I closed my eyes.
CHAPTER 39
I woke in a hospital bed. A tall nurse was shaving me. He had a gentle, Australian accent. “Hello, mate. Wasn’t sure you would make it.”
“Where?”
“Home,” Sunshine said from behind the bed. Rolling out, she took my hand. “You been out for three days.”
“Freedom?” My voice was raw, hurt to speak.
“She made it. Ballsy girl.”
“Gregor?”
“Un-killable.” Then she told me Lowrie had died on the scene, gun in his hand. He held out until the FBI and SWAT rolled in. “Way that kid Twenty-six told it to Peter, Lowrie’s last words were, ‘Kid, save my city. She’s worth it.’ The kid was the first cop to talk to Agent Sanders and agree to turn state’s evidence against the Chief.”
“If I remember right, you saved my life out there.” I took her hand and stroked it.
“I did, and you owe me.”
“What do I owe you?”
“Everything.”
OVER THE NEXT day I was clued in on all that had gone down while we were
on our bloody trail.
PETER HANDED ALL his research to the FBI in exchange for being embedded during the cleanup, arrests and interviews. Chief Dobbs was never arrested. He ate his barrel rather than suffer that humiliation. With him died the link to D.A. Rodriguez. Rodriguez might skate, but his run for mayor was done—the ugliest scandal in the rich history of LAPD scandals went down on his watch. They couldn’t prove he had direct links, but he would be asked to step down for health or personal reasons.
KILROY’S CREW LOST three. Bugs was blown up, Penny was gunned down leaving the counting room, and a kid named Jimmy B. got gutted with a machete.
Cam left her dead. The wounded limped out and down the tunnels. Gregor helped her carry out over a million dollars in black plastic garbage bags. Cam said the money could buy a house for the vets. Maybe it will. Maybe she and Kilroy will go to Vegas and put it all on red. Whatever. It all came down to fido.
“CONSIDERING THEY’RE THREE clicks past crazy, they were lucky to only lose three. We patched up the wounded here. Your friend Kilroy is a stone trip,” Sunshine said.
“He is that. Wait . . . us? Kenny?”
“We lost three.”
I wanted to puke. “Who?” I asked, but I didn’t want to know.
“Moses McGuire, Sunshine O’Shay and Freedom Jones. They all died that night.”
SUNSHINE TOLD ME they found our bodies in the wreckage. Kenny had received the ashes. That third strike, the bitch hanging over my head, the weight no man should shoulder, died in a firefight in a warehouse along with my name.
“We can’t come back to Los Angeles again, big man.”
“That’s ok. I love this city, but she’s never brought me all that much good luck.” It was time to get lost someplace warm.
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