by Joe Nobody
Sighing, Kit eased the vehicle back into traffic. Driving in silence for a moment, she was trying to absorb the information presented to her. Frowning and making a turn at the same time, the attorney asked, “A dozen of who? Where? Who are you going after?”
“They are called the Diablos. They are a Hispanic motorcycle gang. I recognized their club logo, tattooed on the bomb-thrower’s arm. For over a year, we had an outstanding warrant for two of their founding members, but we just couldn’t catch them. These guys don’t ride Harleys; they tool around on dirt bikes and go-fasts. They squirt across the desert using trails even our border patrol horses can’t follow,” he explained.
“And?”
“So, a few months ago, I wised up and ran a Spanish language ad offering to sell a top of the line, excessively customized dirt bike from a famous chop shop in Los Angeles. I added pictures of one sexy-ass machine… if you’re into that sort of thing. The bait worked. The two guys we were after moseyed right up to our safe house, looking to buy a new toy,” Griffin grinned.
“Nice,” she nodded.
“What’s even funnier is that they were both armed to the teeth, but they didn’t have much cash on them. Somehow, I got the impression that they were going to insist on a huge discount for the bike,” he chuckled. “After they were busted, word spread around that the Diablos wanted revenge. They made it known far and wide that they were looking for the federales who had taken their people down, even offering a cash reward for information.”
“You think somebody on the inside told them where you lived? Or where you could be found?”
Griffin paused before answering, obviously trying to be extra careful with his next words. “I find it odd that the picture you gave me last night was sitting on the seat next to me. I was on my way to the FBI office when they tried to take me out. What was even more interesting was the fact that this little assassination attempt had been well thought out. The traffic light was on the blink, and I was stuck like a rat in a trap with all the other commuters. The bomb had to have taken some time to build. Like Detective Royce’s story, there sure are a lot of dots that are starting to connect.”
Kit wasn’t sold. “I still think we should call for backup. At least get some El Paso PD down here as a show of force.”
“We don’t have time,” he insisted. “They would want a warrant. They would want to ask 500 questions and play three rounds of verbal judo before even drawing a weapon. By then, the bomber and his chauffeur would be partying in Tijuana, bragging to the senoritas about how they took out a US marshal. I need to get my hands on them while the gun is still smoking.”
“Are you just going to execute them?” she asked, her face colored with an expression that made it clear she wasn’t going to like an affirmative answer.
Griffin shook his head, “No. Of course not. I’m not that pissed. What we do need, however, is to have their asses sweating in an interrogation room. I want to know who put them onto me, how that message was delivered, and what information was passed along.”
Kit cast a questioning glance at the man beside her, not convinced he wasn’t placating her for the time being. While she had never known Griffin to break the law, she had also never given a ride to a man who had just survived an assassination attempt.
Before she could continue to question his motives, they entered what was clearly not one of El Paso’s finest neighborhoods. The usual signs were there, weeds challenging the structural integrity of sidewalks that should have been replaced 30 years ago, a virtual parade of relic cars lining the pot-hole infested streets, a layer of trash littering everything that didn’t move.
As they motored along a road full of nearly collapsing houses, Griffin pointed to the right and said, “Turn here. Don’t go too slow; their clubhouse is on the next block.”
A convenience store anchored the corner, heavy iron bars securing the door and windows. The freezer out front looked more like a pile of rust than an ice machine. The only advertisements visible were Spanish campaigns for American cigarettes and beer.
She continued driving, ignoring the leering stares of the few pedestrians on the street. They were all Hispanic and, judging from the bare feet and dirty clothing, impoverished.
“There,” Griffin said, pointing toward a faded, white building sitting back from the street, “That’s their HQ. Keep on going. Don’t slow down.”
Kit couldn’t tell what the structure’s original purpose had been, the only signage being a pair of red devil’s horns painted on the scruffy, wooden exterior. The lot was mostly dirt, a few thistly stems protruding from the desert-like hardpan.
“Security cameras watching the front,” Griffin stated. “The back of the building has a roll-up garage door. They park their bikes inside.” An eight-foot security fence enclosed the back half of the facility, three strands of barbwire looped around the top. Evidently, the marshal noted, the Diablos have issues with the local crime rate, just like their neighbors.
Kit continued driving, turning left at the next intersection. “So… now what is the plan? How are you going to approach them? Especially without being seen? I mean it’s not like you can just ring the doorbell and announce, ‘Avon calling,’” she bantered.
“I need to come in from the back,” he mumbled, seemingly disappointed. “The front is far more open than what I remembered. You can just drop me off here.”
“And what? You have your little chat with the boys and call for Uber to take you back to your office when you are through? We can still call for backup. El Paso could probably have a SWAT team down here in 30 minutes or less.”
“And if the guys who tossed the bomb in my backseat aren’t there? I would look like a fool. No, I need to get in there is a less-official capacity. I need to make them think that the attempt on my life has made me loco… that I’ve left the reservation. Besides, half of the El Paso PD is walking around with a chip on its shoulder after losing a brother in the riot; the other half is scared to use their computers or cell phones. I don’t need that headache right now.”
Kit understood his logic, still not entirely sure that the bomb hadn’t damaged a couple of her friend’s brain cells. Yet, she had prosecuted enough hardcore cartel and gang members to know that they were fully aware of their rights and not afraid to use the US justice system to their advantage. They respected only one thing, and that was force. If Griffin could make them think he had gone insane, he might get something useful. Still, it was a dangerous line to walk.
“Fine. But I am not leaving. In fact, I’ve got an ingenious idea,” she announced, staring into his eyes one last time to reassure herself of his state. “I will cause a distraction. I’ll pretend my car has broken down in front of their clubhouse. If they see me out checking under the hood and acting pissed, it might hold their attention long enough for you to sneak up on the back side.”
Griffin wasn’t so sure. “I’m not certain that would do it. Maybe if your car was on fire or something….”
“Put your blow torch away, Marshal Storm, and wait here,” she said, pulling to the side of the road and stopping with a heavy foot on the brake. She then threw her car into park and popped the sedan’s trunk.
A minute later, she returned holding what appeared to be a pair of cut-off shorts and a skimpy tank top. “I wear these to cover up my swimming suit,” she explained. “They’ve been in the trunk for a while.”
Warming up to the idea, but still not convinced, Griffin just shook his head. “I don’t know, Kit… I’m worried that….”
Rolling her eyes to interrupt his protest, Kit began unbuttoning her blouse, then wiggled out of her top to expose a lacey bra that barely covered her ample chest. Griffin looked away, his cheeks running hot.
Hearing the rustle of more clothing, he chanced a glance and spied a pair of very long, perfectly tanned legs squirming into the shorts. Again, he jerked back to look out the passenger window without a word.
“There,” she announced, buttoning th
e short-shorts. “If this outfit doesn’t distract a bunch of macho bikers, nothing will.”
Looking her up and down, Griffin had to smile. She was a vision, with super-model legs and a flat tummy exposed by the tank top that barely reached the bottom of her breasts. The shirt exposed the creamy skin of her shoulders and was so thin, the hard points of her nipples looked like they could cut glass. There wasn’t a man alive who wouldn’t be tempted. “Damn,” was all he could manage.
“I will drive around to the end of the block behind their headquarters,” she stated flatly, tugging her seatbelt across her lap. “You hop out there and then give me five minutes before you do your bull in a china shop routine.”
“Kit, these are some pretty rough characters,” he warned. “I wouldn’t put it past them to come rolling out of that gang HQ and yank you back inside for an afternoon of fun and games. Are you sure?”
Patting her purse, she answered, “Me and my buddy, Mr. Glock, will be just fine, Cowboy. You just make sure you get inside there and find the men you’re looking for. I’ll keep any of the guys who come to assist the damsel in distress occupied for a while.”
Glancing down at her shapely legs and exposed midsection, Griffin concluded it just might work. Memories of her antics in Midland floated back into his mind. She was one, tough cookie who obviously could put a hurt on any bad guy. “Okay. Let’s do this,” he agreed, pulling his own sidearm and chambering a round with a slingshot motion. “Are you sure you don’t need your Dick Tracy underwear?” he teased.
“You remember? Of all the things to stick in that thick skull of yours!”
“Who could forget the baby-faced FBI agent who took down three kidnappers singlehandedly?” he replied as she slowed to drop him off. “Besides, those boxers were a show stopper. They would have even turned the Pope’s head. I was impressed.”
He was out the door and scurrying up the block before Kit’s car came to a complete stop, his action denying her the chance at rebuttal or scolding.
Watching him for a moment, she whispered a heartfelt, “Good luck,” and then pulled away.
Two turns later, she rolled in front the Diablo’s den again, this time moving very slowly. Just past the exact midpoint of their center of operations, she pumped the gas pedal a few times to make her car jerk and stall, lunge and then stop.
She navigated to the side, reaching for the hood release. A moment later, she uncoiled her bare legs and stomped angrily to the front of the apparently troubled vehicle. There, she pretended not to know how to finish opening the bonnet, ducking low to search for the release and cursing up a storm. She was well-aware of the cleavage being flashed to the nearby security cameras.
She then switched positions, bending again to look for the hood’s release, this time sticking out her ass towards the biker’s nest. The next act of her drama involved slapping the hood with the palm of her hand in frustration.
She then looked around, a desperate woman searching for a phone or someone who might help. Two small children were in a nearby yard, the oldest barely able to peddle a tricycle. Both of them stared back with empty expressions.
She then glanced at the clubhouse, secretly disappointed that no knight in shining armor had emerged to assist the leggy blond in front of the HQ. “Are they all gay? Fine. I’ll go up and knock and ask for help,” she whispered.
She managed two steps toward the ominous building when the front door flew open, and three Hispanic men stepped outside. They were all wearing the same sleeveless jackets, exposing numerous tattoos up and down their arms. They looked to be very serious characters.
“Hi, boys. Do any of you happen to have a phone I can borrow to make a call?” she asked, continuing to approach. “My car is giving me trouble.”
“You don’t have a cell phone, lady?” the largest biker asked, clearly skeptical.
“I forgot it,” she replied, pointing toward the purse still hanging from her shoulder. “Of all the days to leave it at home….”
“What are you doing in this neighborhood, Chica?” sneered another of the not-so-friendly Diablos.
Kit glanced around as if she were about to share a big secret. “I buy weed from a guy a few streets over. Sometimes we toast a blunt and then have a little fun. When I drove by his house, there was another car there, and I think it was his wife,” she giggled.
Her answer seemed to relax them. “Why don’t you come inside,” one guy offered with a sweep of his arm toward the door. “We have a phone in there, and you can get out of the heat. Maybe we can even party a little while you wait for a tow truck.”
His friends thought it was a promising idea, chuckling as they moved to surround the assistant district attorney. She, however, was ready for their maneuver. Deftly turning away and strolling back toward her car before being hemmed in, she replied, “I’d love to party with you guys, but before we do, could one of you at least look under my hood? I’m hopeful it’s just a loose wire or hose or something simple. I could sure relax a whole lot more if I wasn’t worried about my engine.”
Like mice under the pied piper’s spell, they followed her, which was just what Kit wanted. The further she could get them away from the clubhouse, the better chance Griffin would have.
While the three bikers tailed Ms. Legs toward her car, Griffin worked his way to the rear of the Diablo headquarters. Finding the back gate secured with a heavy padlock, he searched for a way over or under the tall obstruction when he noticed a toolbox lying just inside the fenced area.
Reaching through a gap between the barrier and its gate, he managed to drag two large end wrenches back to his side of the fence.
Griffin strategically placed the mouth of each wrench on one of the padlock’s bars and then squeezed the tools’ handles together with significant force.
He’d learned the technique from a Special Forces operator in Iraq. It seemed like every home in the sandbox came equipped with a gate across the front door, and almost all of them were padlocked. Rather than shoot the lock and warn the occupants or risk a ricochet, Griffin had been fascinated as the snake eater had used two common wrenches to create an effect that was like a reverse set of pliers.
Just like before, the outward pressure on the padlock’s bar was too much for its steel to withstand, and with a pop, the casing cracked and failed.
In less than ten seconds, the marshal was inside the barrier, his weapon held high and ready.
A courtyard of sorts lay behind the Diablo’s building, several old lawn chairs scattered in a semi-circle around a large, wooden wire-spool that acted as a table. The entire surface was strewn with empty beer cans and fast food wrappers.
Moving to the corner, Griffin found the overhead garage door open. Inside, a man was working on a motorcycle engine.
Noting the mechanic was wearing the club’s colors on his jacket, Griffin waited until the biker turned his back.
Like a blur, Griffin came in fast and bold, taking four long, silent strides to reach the target. Maintaining the grip on his pistol with one hand, the marshal reached up and grabbed the biker’s pigtail of braided hair and yanked down and back with irresistible force.
The Diablo’s head jerked backward, giving his body no choice but to follow. The man’s instinct was to reach for whatever was trying to separate his head from his body while taking the pressure off his neck and spine. Griffin had no intention of letting that happen. The marshal’s leg and hip became a fulcrum, rolling the victim’s weight. With a whoosh, the biker landed flat on his back.
Now dragging the struggling, kicking fellow behind him, Griffin pulled the squirming, growling man outside and around the corner in a flash. Before the biker could scream or yell, the marshal had shoved two inches of his pistol barrel in the hapless thug’s mouth.
“Do you know who I am, Cucaracha?” Griffin growled, now straddling the prone biker as he pushed more blued steel into the man’s pie hole.
With wide, near-panicked eyes, the mar
shal’s prisoner managed to groan, “No,” while shaking his head.
“I’m the man your buddies attempted to assassinate about an hour ago. They tried to stick a bomb up my ass and missed. Now I want revenge. Where are they?”
The biker managed a shrug, again finding it difficult to move his head with Griffin’s gun pushing hard against the back of his throat.
The marshal pulled the weapon out, the front sight catching on a tooth and jerking it loose. Griffin didn’t care when the man beneath him winced in pain. Less than a second later, the lawman thrust the muzzle against the biker’s crotch and pressed hard.
A high-pitched whimper escaped from the victim’s throat as the marshal again voiced his demand. “Where the fuck are they? I don’t have much time. I will blow off your balls, one by one.”
“They were heading south right after the hit,” groaned the Diablo. “They weren’t taking any chances.”
Griffin pressed harder with the gun, hissing, “I don’t believe you!”
“Señor, please,” the captive squealed, “Check with the border patrol at the International Bridge. They went to Juarez… I swear it!”
In fact, Griffin did believe him. “How did they know where to find me? Who sold me out?”
“Emilio got a phone call… I don’t know who it was. The guy on the other end told him who you were, that you were the guy who had taken down our brothers with that ad for the bike. Emilio said the guy promised you would be stuck in traffic this morning and told him where you would be and what you would be driving. He even had the license plate number.”
“What else did Emilio have to say?” Griffin growled, now getting anxious and impatient, but mostly worried about Kit.
“Nothing! The only thing I can remember is that the guy on the other end of the phone had an accent… Emilio said you must have pissed off a Frenchman. That’s it! He didn’t say anything else.”
Nodding, Griffin relieved the pressure on the biker’s crotch and then stood up. “Come on; we’re going to round up your friends. How many are inside the clubhouse?”