Enemy in Blue: The Chase (Book #1) (The Cruz Marquez Thrillers)

by Derek Blass

  “Eager is for the weak,” Tyler responded, “I'll be willing and ready.”

  * * * *

  Tomko laughed nervously at what Shaver said but then stopped.

  “No way, Shaver—he asked you to do what?”

  “To kill you, Tomko. And he didn't ask, he told me.” Tomko watched Shaver play with the gun in his hand. His own gun was on the coffee table, too far for him to reach before Shaver could make his move.

  “You've done so much for me Tomko...”

  “I know! I just killed another cop to protect you!” Tomko blurted out.

  Shaver grimaced. “I've already explained you are helping yourself just as much as me Tomko. Nothing more I can do anyway man, this is out of my hands.”

  “Out of your hands?” Tomko asked incredulously. “No... it's actually right in your fucking hands!”

  “Well, what I mean is that the decision of whether to kill you or not is not up to me.”

  “Who the hell is it up to then?”

  “Some would say the Chief. But, in this case he just planted the seed.” Holding his gun up Shaver added, “It's up to Mr. Colt to decide whether to water.”

  “What the fuck—you're crazy.”

  “Bad tone Tomko. Harsh words. That's probably the wrong route to take given your current situation. But, I've got to tell you that Mr. Colt has always had a particular affinity for you and your loyalty.”

  “Well, thank God for Mr. Fucking Colt's feelings,” Tomko retorted sarcastically.

  “Tomko,” Shaver snapped, “I told you to watch it. You'll hurt his feelings.”

  “Jesus, you are crazy.”

  “Guilty as charged!” Shaver said with an enormous smile. “I talk to a gun, and it makes life and death decisions for me. That's why you are so shit-your-pants afraid of me, Tomko.”

  Shaver stood up and circled Tomko. “You see, my old friend, this meek shall inherit the Earth bullshit is just that. Power rules. Inspiring fear in others creates power. People whine that if you rule with an iron fist no one will like you…waaa fucking waaa...” Shaver's face had become red and contorted. The veins in his head bulged. “Since when did a man's value come from how fucking popular or well-liked he was? That's a tool of the weak, Tomko. They create fictions, values—for self-preservation. I've gone beyond what society tells me is good or bad. I just ask Mr. Colt.” Tomko could say nothing and just stared at Shaver. “And…he says…well lucky you...” Shaver looked at the gun. “Really?” Shaver put it back into the holster on his hip and turned to Tomko. He whispered, “Mr. Colt must be feeling especially fucking generous today.” Shaver sat down on the couch to his left.

  “You're a goddamn lunatic!” Tomko yelled.

  “Again…no argument here Tomko. Maybe, just maybe though, you'll realize that you are actually the lunatic for believing in all this shit,” he spat as he waived a big paw in the general vicinity of the world. Shaver stopped and studied Tomko's face. “Back to business, it's time we get that drive. If we can deliver the drive, the Chief may let you live. If we don't get it, he'll kill us both.”

  F I F T E E N

  __________________________________________________

  “Okay then,” Diego said, “We'll fight together. But, it isn't going to be pretty or easy.”

  “We know,” Sandra said.

  “Let's see this drive you two have.”

  Sandra pulled a small USB drive out of her purse.

  “Do you have a computer?” Cruz asked.

  “I may be old, Cruz, but I'm no dummy.” Diego walked slowly into his house, beckoning the other two to follow. What Cruz saw when he got into the house was more like a shrine. There were pictures and posters of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and John F. Kennedy. There was a large oil painting of Emiliano Zapata hanging on the wall to their left.

  “Diego,” Cruz started, “how do you reconcile these different positions? You've got MLK next to Zapata and I see a small picture of Che right over there.”

  “Reconcile to whom, Cruz?” Diego turned like an aged merry-go-round as a smile lit on his face.

  “Well, you are presenting two very different philosophies by mashing these historical figures together.”

  “That's a narrow view. Their goals were all el mismo. They all fought in the same, timeless battle against la injusticia. The only difference is how they got there. It's just like our present situation. You came to me instead of, say, Sandra's papa. Why? Sometimes you need the olive branch and sometimes you need the hammer.” They continued moving on, back into a den. This area was filled with pictures of Diego—tons of pictures of Diego with other people.

  Sandra picked up a picture and asked, “You knew Cesar Chavez?”

  “Si. We worked on a lettuce boycott together many, many years ago now. It was the first bit of organizing I had ever done.” Diego switched his computer on. As it fired up he stood with his back to the two, but both could see a tremendous sense of pride welled up in Diego.

  “This pelea…this fight has taken so many resources for so many years. People have sacrificed their time, their money, their families, and even their own lives.” Diego stopped and looked at the pictures around him. “I understand why there has to be such a fight for true equal rights. But it's a shame that so much has been wasted on gaining equality when so much more could be done if people just treated each other with dignity and respect.”

  “There has always been discrimination, and there always will be,” Cruz said.

  “Most likely,” Diego started, “but perhaps someday soon, the tables will be turned.”

  Cruz looked over at Sandra who flashed him a sweet smile. Pinpricks of nerves jabbed him in the chest. Cruz smiled back but quickly turned away in embarrassment. What a strange reaction, he thought to himself. He had never felt like that around Sandra in all the time he had known her. Her smile and look were filled with a depth she had never directed at him before. He regrouped and asked, “Is your computer ready?”

  “Yes. Let me see that drive.” Cruz turned back to Sandra who handed the drive over with a clenched fist.

  “You are going to have to let it go muchacha.”

  Sandra unclenched her hand. In a fit of selfishness she said, “You know this drive could make my career! Any other reporter would be at the press with it already.”

  “I know Sandra...but you aren't just any other reporter,” Diego said.

  “Even in the short time I have had it, it has been such a fight to keep it safe,” Sandra added.

  “Yo entiendo,” Diego said as he plugged the USB drive into the computer. Just as he did, they all heard a click come from the front of the house. Diego spun around in his chair. “Quién es?” he called out. He waited a few seconds and then called out again, “Who is it?” Diego started to open a drawer behind him just as a shadow moved on the wall outside of their room.

  “Diego?” a voice asked.

  “Man…who the fuck is it?” Diego growled. A head peeked around the wall.

  “Soy yo, Alfonso,” the man said as he finished entering the room.

  “Caramba Alfonso! You're crazy to come in here like a goddamn ghost. Here I am reaching for the damn pistola!” Diego slammed the drawer shut.

  “Sorry, papa. I heard you talking and didn't want to interrupt.”

  “You are going to get shot acting like that,” Diego said staring at Alfonso. “Well, don't just stand there! Introduce yourself hombre.”

  Alfonso turned to Cruz with a wary look. “Alfonso Archuleta…who are you two?” Alfonso's face was still but his eyes were fiery. Cruz guessed that Alfonso was in his early twenties. He was medium height, a bit shorter than Cruz himself. His hair was jet black and pushed back, and the look matched the black, army-style jacket and pants he was wearing. What stood out the most was a scar that ran diagonally almost the length of Alfonso's forehead.

  Cruz extended his hand toward Alfonso who grabbed it cautiously but firmly. “Cruz Marquez, and this is my friend Sandra Gutierrez.”

>   “Nice to meet you,” Alfonso said. “Now, I hope you don't mind me asking, but what are you doing here?”

  “Well...” Cruz started before stopping to ask Diego a question. “Are you sure you want him privy to what's going on? It could make this dangerous for him too.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Diego said, “but he is my partner in my work. In fact, the work I do is now driven by my son and what was done to him.” Diego turned back toward the computer. “Do you see the scar on Alfonso's forehead?” Not knowing how to respond to the question, Cruz and Sandra remained quiet. “Go ahead, Alfonso, tell them what happened.”

  Alfonso again looked at Cruz and Sandra with distrust, but said quietly, “A cop bashed me across my forehead with a billy club.”

  “And why did she do that Alfonso?”

  “She said she saw a weapon in my hand.”

  “And what was actually in your hand Alfonso?”

  “A pencil and a pager. I was just coming out of class and was hanging out with some friends...”

  “Friends?!” Diego exclaimed, cutting his son off. “Tel them who these friends were.”

  “They were certainly the wrong crowd. Bangers, dealers, users. It was a bad time for me.”

  “For us!”

  Alfonso waited to make sure the commentary was over. Diego angrily organized pens into a neat pile, apparently a coping mechanism. “The cop stopped to ask us questions. She focused on me for some reason, and told me to put down what she thought were weapons. When I opened my hand to show the cop what I had, one of the guys in the group started to make a run for it. The cop swung her billy club at him, missed, and hit me on the forehead.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I was fourteen. I've had two surgeries to correct the damage and doctors said I may have cognitive problems at some point. None to report now though,” Alfonso said with a half smile.

  “So you see, Alfonso is one significant reason why I do what I do,” Diego said. “The department took no responsibility for what happened and refused to contribute to his medical bills. We filed suit against the city but some judge decided the case wasn't worth the time and dismissed it. We've appealed but the stress of the medical bills and litigation drove my wife and I apart. This happened eight years ago and we still haven't seen an ounce of justice—so we fight for it.”

  They all contemplated the story. “Enough of that,” Diego said. “You know us better now and you know why my son stays.”

  “Sure,” Cruz said. A media player popped up on the computer screen.

  “All right, push play,” Sandra said.

  S I X T E E N

  __________________________________________________

  Martinez stood at the top of his driveway watching Carmen and Alicia pull away. His heart filled with anxiety. He just lost Williams, his partner and best friend away from home. Now his wife was leaving, and with her the last layer of external security that he had in his life.

  He wiped his eyes dry and went back into the house. As he walked into the house he remembered Williams' words and his challenge to fight back. The reality of the matter kept popping into his mind. Him—one man versus an enraged police department. His so-called brothers in blue all taking aim.

  He went to his bedroom and pulled a board out from the closet floor. Underneath the board was a space, about the size of a cereal box with a miniature safe in it. He entered the code and checked to make sure the drive was still there.

  “My God, this couldn't be more perfect!” came a voice from behind Martinez. He froze as the familiarity of that voice struck him and he felt a cold object press against the back of his head.

  “Put the safe down and get on your stomach,” the voice said.

  “Shaver?” Martinez asked incredulously.

  “Who else sunshine? Why so surprised? Did you really think your house was a good hideout? Figures, for a dumb wetback.”

  “Amazing what a dumb honky you are to think I would just keep the drive at my house.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “It ain't here, Shaver.” Martinez felt what must have been the muzzle of Shaver's gun relax ever so slightly from his neck. “All that's in here is this…!” Martinez spun around with his left arm and knocked the gun from his neck. With his right hand he hurled the safe at Shaver's face. The safe connected with a dull but devastatingly solid thud. Shaver immediately hit the floor. He picked up Shaver's gun and the safe and ran for the front door. He heard someone call in, “Shaver? What the hell is going on in there?” It was Tomko's voice.

  Martinez turned the corner for the front door and was about fifteen feet from Tomko, who hardly had time to adjust with Martinez charging at him. Martinez pulled his arms into his body and lowered his shoulders as he bowled through Tomko. Tomko fired off two errant shots. Martinez scrambled to his motorcycle on the side of his house.

  “Please, please, please! Fucking start!” He turned the keys in the ignition and pressed the starter. The motorcycle began to turn over and then shuddered. Just as Martinez was going to give up hope, the engine turned over and the exhaust roared to life. Martinez pulled the clutch in, stomped on the shift lever and pegged the throttle. As the motorcycle's tire caught traction he could hear Tomko screaming his name.

  “Maartinezzzz! You're fucking dead!” Martinez was already passing Tomko and he could see him raise his gun to take aim as the motorcycle flew down the driveway. Martinez pressed tightly against the gas tank to slim down his profile. He heard a shot ring out and then another. As soon as the second shot sounded, Martinez felt a searing pain in his right calf. He let out a muffled groan, realizing he was shot. His right leg became loose and almost fell off the foot peg. He shoved the gun and safe into his jacket and grabbed the pants on the shin area of his right leg. The bike quickly decelerated as he let go of the throttle. Martinez dropped his foot onto the peg and grabbed the throttle. Just as he did he heard one more shot ring out. This time Martinez felt no pain and he wrenched the throttle back again. The thousand cubic centimeter engine screamed and lifted the front wheel off the ground. Martinez raced down residential streets at eighty miles per hour. Parked cars on both sides of Martinez became blurred, solid sheets of metal.

  Martinez let off the throttle about five blocks from his house to check his side mirror. Seeing nothing he slowed down a bit more to re-adjust his leg on the motorcycle. Just as he did, he heard glass pop behind him. Martinez turned around and saw a black SUV barreling down the street in his direction. Martinez shot down the road again and headed towards the highway. He cut through alleys, ran over front lawns and dodged cars on the way. Shaver's black SUV traced his path the whole time.

  As Martinez approached the highway he knew something drastic was necessary to escape Shaver. There was a railroad track two miles east of the highway, but riding his sport bike next to the track would be extremely dangerous at best, and fatal at worst. As he pulled onto the highway he looked down and saw his speed top one hundred, then one-twenty and then a hundred and forty miles per hour. Though he pulled away from Shaver, he could still see the outline of his SUV in the distance behind him. Martinez made a split-second decision and took the next exit off of the highway. At the bottom of the ramp he squeezed through three parked cars and narrowly avoided being plastered by an oncoming truck as he merged onto the street.

  He raced down the beat-up street, running red lights where he could and blowing through stop signs. Two enormous headlights continued to track his moves. He could see the glimmer of the railroad crossing sign coming up fast in front of him. He cut back on his speed, and after he crossed the second track he yanked the bike to the left. Now his fate was ninety percent luck. If he could catch up to a train in the next five minutes, he may have a chance. If not, the advantage of Shaver's SUV would surely overwhelm him.

  * * * *

  Diego pushed play in the media player and a black screen popped up. The length of the video showed eight minutes and forty seconds
. After a few seconds of nothing, the screen lit up with a shot of Shaver's squad leaving the back of their transport. The camera bumped along as Max scampered to keep up with three of the cops as they maneuvered to the back of the home.

  “The Latino must be Martinez,” Cruz said.

  “How many cops were there?” Diego asked.

  Cruz turned to Sandra, not remembering exactly how many cops there were. “Uhm, I think there were five total. Martinez was the only Latino. Then there was a black cop named Williams...”

  “Oh, the one who was just killed in his own home?” Diego interrupted.

  “Yeah. Then Shaver, Tomko and another one.” All of their attention reverted to the computer screen which showed Martinez breaching the back door and stepping aside as the other two cops entered the home.

  The camera was partially obstructed by Martinez's shoulder. As the other cops pushed in, Martinez stood still with his gun drawn. When Martinez moved in, Max followed closely behind him. The camera picked up glimpses of the home between shifts in Martinez's body. The group traveled down a long hall with doors off to each side. Suddenly the whole train stopped and Max stuck the camera around Martinez's right shoulder.

  Martinez seemed to relax a bit and lowered his gun while still holding it with two hands. He motioned Max to move forward, and when he did, the room came into plain view. Max pushed back into a corner to capture the whole scene.

  “Pause it there. That's obviously Williams,” Cruz said, pointing to a figure on the right side of the room. “On the left you can see Lindsey and Tomko. I recognize Lindsey from the photos in the news after he died at Williams' house.”

  “So, that leaves Shaver then,” Sandra said as she pointed to the figure looming in the center of the screen. His gun was drawn and pointed directly at Livan Rodriguez. Shaver seemed huge. Shaved blond hair gleamed from the overhead light. His pit bull neck bulged out of his Kevlar vest. She knew that profile all too well.

  “Start it again,” Cruz said. Diego restarted the video and they all watched, simultaneously entranced and braced for what was coming. The young woman at Shaver's left leg clawed at his ankle. Her face was awash with anguish and glistening from tears. Shaver pulled his leg back from her grip and pushed her away by placing his foot on her shoulder.