The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4)

by Gay Hendricks

  I squeezed between the metal legs and pushed upright slowly, my hands in the air. Ponytail was working on a sparse goatee. Not a good look for him. At least he’d been downgraded from a Heckler assault rifle to an Airlite just like mine. The muzzle aimed directly at my chest. He looked me up and down.

  “You again.”

  I said nothing.

  He waved the Airlite. “Take gun from pocket.”

  I did.

  “Drop it on ground.”

  “No,” I said.

  He blinked.

  “I’ll hand it over, but I won’t dump it in the sand. It’s a Wilson Combat Supergrade, okay? Made to order.”

  He thought this over. Held out his hand.

  “Give. Handle first.”

  It killed me to do so, but I gave.

  He hefted the burled wooden grip. “Nice gun. I like.”

  A thought flicked through in my mind: Don’t get too attached.

  “Okay. Move,” he said. I trudged through the sand, vainly attempting to center my breath.

  “Faster.” A gun barrel prodded my spine.

  Up on the road, squealing brakes pierced the air, followed by the roar of an SUV engine.

  I must have flinched.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I’m nervous,” I said.

  “You should be,” he said. “Stop here.”

  He had a push-to-talk function on his phone. I saw him thumb the button a couple of times. “Bosko?” He paused and repeated: “Bosko?”

  First Bozo. Now Bosko? Were these guys for real? They seriously needed a lesson in re-branding from G-Force.

  We’d reached the cottage.

  “Bosko?” he again called out. His eyes narrowed, and with a quick jerk he trained my own Wilson at my forehead, “Get on your knees!”

  I did, but not before spotting the other lookout man, sprawled facedown. The back of his head was a splintered, bloody mess.

  Ponytail’s breath was rapid and hoarse behind me. His voice was a snarl: “You did this?”

  “No. How could I? I was with you.”

  “Your negroes?”

  Issues of political correctness aside, how did he know about Chain and G-Force?

  Before I could ask him, help arrived.

  “Hands up your-self, mofo!” Chain-Link was planted like a double-barreled redwood trunk, MAC-10 and Uzi up. Then Sasha stepped around the corner, popgun at the ready.

  “Fuck,” Ponytail said, reaching two hands and two handguns in the air.

  “Weapons on the sand,” Chain-Link said.

  “Not the Wilson!” I said, for the second time tonight. Maybe I was the one with the unhealthy attachment.

  Ponytail had a better idea, at least in his mind, but before he got off a shot, three pfttt-pfttt-pfttts from Chain’s Uzi, center mass, flung him backwards. It was like watching a truck hit a rag doll. He collapsed in a heap, let out a single wet rattle, and bled out in a matter of moments.

  I was too disturbed by this violent display of overkill to summon a single chant of ease. Sasha, too, was dumbfounded. His eyes were open, but his brain had vacated the premises.

  I extracted my Wilson, gritty after all from the dead man’s final fall. I closed Ponytail’s eyes. His skin was growing cool and clammy to the touch.

  And now, the words came: Om mani padme hum, I mentally chanted. I included his dead colleague, Bosco. Om mani padme hum. And I improvised a personal addendum, to address the violence of their passing: As painful as your dying was, may the lessons learned someday bring an equal portion of bliss.

  Someone inside pulled up the blinds, barely ten feet from us, throwing a bright square of light onto the sand. As one, we launched ourselves close against the wall.

  A door on the other side of the house opened. If anyone came around the corner, we were perfect targets, all in a row.

  “The lock!” I gestured. “Shoot the lock!”

  Pfttt. With a splinter of wood and metal, the lock exploded, along with half of the street-side door. Chain-Link hurled his battering-ram body against the rest, knocking the planked wood inward, onto the entryway floor.

  I heard a muffled sound, like an animal in distress. Then I found the source.

  Just beyond the foyer was a small living room. In the center, Mila was gagged and trussed and sitting on a wooden chair. Her shirt was ripped, and her forehead bulged with a bruise the size and color of a plum.

  Mila’s black eyes flashed above the gag. She rocked and struggled, strapped to the chair with duct tape, her hands bound somehow behind her.

  Sasha squeezed past me and dropped to his knees by her side. He clawed and ripped at the tape.

  The door to the beach stood ajar. As I ran toward it, Zarko, all in black, rose from the sand like a desert demon. He jerked his rifle up, then down again, and disappeared to my left without shooting. I realized why when I saw who was directly behind me.

  He doesn’t want to hit Sasha or Mila. Why not?

  My next thought carried with it no words, only an instinctive warning a millisecond after I glimpsed movement at the window.

  “Hit the floor!” I screamed while diving as an explosive barrage shattered the glass to the left of the back door, away from Mila and Sasha. The wall erupted, showering great clots of plaster and dust.

  I elbow-crawled toward the open gash that used to be the other door. Once through, I half-stood, zigzagging outside and diving off the porch. I rolled to one side, as another round of deadly sound and earth danced around me.

  I pushed up and aimed my Wilson, but Zarko ducked and ran off again.

  I shouted to Chain-Link, “Go around! Other side!”

  I heard the crack-crack-crack of Zarko’s assault rifle, deafening in the still evening air. Where were the neighbors? Where were the cops?

  A fourth volley of bullets, as spitfire-sharp as firecrackers.

  Firecrackers. We were only a week past the Fourth of July. There was my answer.

  Someone howled, an “I’ve-been-shot” howl.

  Please. Not Sasha.

  Chain’s voice rang out. “We clear back here. Dude is down.”

  Zarko gasped for air as he writhed, clutching his left thigh. Chain-Link’s barrel rested about an inch above his left ear. Beneath him, spilled blood was staining the area pinkish-brown.

  A part of me wanted to fill Zarko’s mouth and nose with sand. Watch the life ebb from him. The thought of those little boys … that camera.

  I called into the house. “Mila! Sasha! Out here!”

  Zarko Stasic was their family, his immediate fate was theirs to decide.

  Mila knelt beside him. She examined the seeping wound. The sand was soaked by now. He wouldn’t survive without help.

  “I should let you bleed to death,” she said, even as she took the cloth that had recently gagged her own mouth. She cinched it just above the wound, stanching the flow.

  Zarko spoke through gritted teeth: “If I die here, I say same thing. Whatever else I do, I did not kill your father.”

  She sat back on her heels and raked him with her eyes, that internal frisking I’d also experienced once upon a time.

  “I believe you,” she said. “Now take me to the one who did.”

  “Mila, leave alone.” Zarko was almost begging. “You are not bad person. Leave this be.”

  “No.” Mila said. “No. I owe it to him.”

  Zarko groaned. “All right. I will take you, but do not expect to find satisfaction.”

  “Sasha,” Mila ordered. “Get me clean cloth, sheet, anything, and tape.”

  Sasha ran inside, and soon reappeared with a pillowcase and duct tape, as well as a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide he must have found in the bathroom. Mila cleaned the wound, tore the case into strips, and field-dressed the injury, not gently, but as best she could. Her medical school experience was finally serving a purpose.

  I sent Chain up the road to fetch the Escalade, but not before confiscating his coat and weapons, and making him
and Sasha use the peroxide to clean off any residue on their hands and faces. I wiped down both assault rifles and tossed them into the beach house, along with the silencer. Some forensic team was going to have a challenging time of it, once this crime scene became official.

  I still had my Wilson and Airlite, not to mention Zarko’s assault rifle.

  A young man finally poked his head out of the neighboring cottage. Tanned skin; bleached, spiky hair; terrified eyes.

  “Can you call 911?”

  “I j-j-just d-d-did,” he stuttered.

  “Call again, and ask for an ambulance as well. There are two men down back there.”

  I was coated with fine white dust and speaking from the shadows. I wasn’t too worried about being identified. Anyway, this kid was too scared to swallow, much less focus on my face.

  The Escalade pulled up. Sasha and I helped Zarko to his feet and half-dragged, half-carried him to the backseat. Mila climbed inside first, Zarko next, and finally Sasha. I handed Sasha the Airlite, and his eyes thanked me.

  “Wait here,” I said to Chain-Link. “I’ll follow you in the Tahoe. Where are we headed, Zarko?”

  “Latigo Canyon.” His voice was bleak and devoid of hope.

  I sprinted the hundred yards to my rental with the other two guns, using the physical exertion to process some of the adrenaline back into my bloodstream. For a panicked moment, I’d thought I’d lost my keys, but they were in a different pocket.

  Faint sirens. Not much time. I wrenched the Tahoe onto the road, my tires spitting soft sand. I pulled up behind the Escalade and flicked the high beams. The Cadillac took off, and I fell in behind.

  Flashing LED lights and blaring sirens screamed past us, followed by a wailing ambulance. Emergency responders answered the call for help, and not for the first time tonight. We’d left a veritable gold mine of fallen villains around the city.

  Too bad no one would ever know it was us.

  CHAPTER 31

  For a brief moment, I was tempted to turn the Tahoe around and head back to Topanga, to the peace of the canyon and the warmth of my home. The violence had left me drained, scooped out from the inside until I was more husk than man. Even my skin, with its dusting of plaster, was ghostly.

  Anyway, what was left? Agvan Supply could not possibly survive this, not with its sites and its leader exposed. Zarko Stasic, if he survived his wound, would soon be behind bars. And if I knew him, he’d take his brother down as well.

  They were finished.

  “Ne,” I heard from the seat behind me, followed by a crackle of static. For a moment, I thought my car was possessed, until I remembered Mila’s button-camera, and the wireless connection between my laptop and her. Then all was silent again.

  I stayed two car lengths behind the Escalade. The ocean was a vast expanse of liquid blackness.

  If Zarko was telling the truth, if he hadn’t killed Mila’s father, that left only one other candidate, the far more elusive Stojan. I’d only caught the one or two glimpses of him, younger and a little slighter than his brother, with that odd bent arm and fingers that plucked at nothing. His nerves had suffered damage at some point, either literally or from some kind of emotional trauma. And damage breeds more damage.

  Maybe it happened during the war.

  When the Buddha talked about suffering, how it followed wrong actions as inevitably as the wheels of a cart follow the oxen, he could have just as easily been talking about nations that have lost their way. The Bosnian War was still causing so much harm, perpetuating so much pain. Cycles of hurt, spinning around and around and around.

  A car zipped between the Cadillac and me, a Toyota Highlander with an attitude. Automatically, I glanced at its plate: MKNG LV, it said. My brain filled in the vowels: “MAKING LOVE.”

  I wish.

  I speed-dialed Julie and put the call on speaker just as an idea nipped at my brain. It darted off before I could grab hold.

  “Ten?”

  “Julie. It’s so good to hear your voice.”

  “Are you okay? You sound a little weird.”

  “I’m exhausted, that’s all. How’s Bill?”

  “A little doped up on painkillers. He’s tucked under the covers back at the house.”

  “Can you tell him Mila’s okay? Sasha, too?”

  “Will do. The minute I get off. Hang on a minute.”

  I heard her talking softly.

  “I’m back. Tank and Homer want to know when you’re coming home. The boys and I miss you.”

  The sensation spreading through my chest was shocking, so warm and bittersweet it almost pained me. Like that first swallow of chocolat chaud, with my mother beaming at me from across the table.

  Like I could do no wrong.

  My breath caught in my throat, and for a moment I couldn’t speak.

  I love her.

  “I’ll be home as soon as I can,” I said. “I’m really glad you’re there.”

  “Me, too, Ten. Me, too.” Her voice was already so dear to me. I wanted to kiss her again.

  MKNG LV darted into the passing lane, and I saw that the Escalade was taking the next exit, up toward the canyons.

  “I have to go,” I said. My love, I thought.

  Between Westlake Village and Woodland Hills, a parallel series of twisting arteries link the 101 to the coastline, roads with intriguing names like Kanan Dume, and Trancas, and, of course, Topanga. I had traversed much of the city using one or the other of these byways, but I was unfamiliar with Latigo Canyon.

  The road proved to be a steep, somewhat treacherous climb, slithering between rocky shoulders and canyon drop-offs like an asphalt snake. There were no streetlights, and the looming darkness added to my sense of peril.

  I called upon Palden Lhamo once again for extra protection.

  About seven miles up, the Escalade turned left at a “For Sale” sign that was stuck in the ground by a green metal mailbox and was at the foot of a gravel driveway much like my own. I flashed my lights, and the Escalade stopped.

  Chain-Link lowered his window, silent and smooth.

  “I can take it from here,” I said. Chain stared at me as if I’d suggested he put on a tutu and twirl onstage. “I mean it. You did your part. This is a family matter now. Thank you.”

  He chewed on this, but only for a moment. “S’cool,” he said, and flashed a final metallic smile. The smoked glass rose between us, snuffing out the gleaming grille of gold.

  I waited until the rear lights of the Escalade had disappeared into the canyon. Sasha now sat next to me, with Mila and Zarko in the back. My tires crunched as we slowly rolled up the driveway. Maybe 20 yards in, a man waved us to a halt, a black silhouette in the headlights. His bent left arm strummed and fingerpicked the air.

  “Stojan,” I heard Mila murmur behind me, but I already knew it was him. Stojan stuck his head inside my window. I smelled stale garlic, and something faintly fruity, like incense, which was odd. His eyes darted and jumped, until they landed on Zarko. They exchanged maybe three Serbian words before he waved us on up the driveway.

  We continued in strained silence.

  “Okay,” I finally said. “As far as I can tell, we’ve disabled most of the soldiers in this little army. So unless I’m missing something, I expect this won’t take long.”

  Zarko snorted. “You miss!” he said. “Miss everything.”

  “Shut up!” Mila was a coiled spring of tension.

  I thought about Zarko’s words. They changed nothing. Either way, I’d given Bill my word that I’d protect Sasha and Mila. I’d see this thing through to the end.

  “Mila, you have to promise me. Promise me this isn’t a mission of revenge.”

  “I already tell you. Not revenge,” she said. “The truth.”

  “Okay. The moment you have it, I’m calling the police.”

  I’d locked my Wilson in the glove compartment, and I kept it there. No way would I be allowed to walk anywhere with a hand cannon. But I made sure to retrieve the Airlite
from Sasha.

  The driveway ended at a huge, boxy, modernistic house, still under construction. Scaffolding and ladders crisscrossed the outside walls, metal bracings supporting a hollow frame.

  I was wrong. There was at least one more soldier, if you could call him that—he was from a different tribe entirely. White and lanky, his skin was pale and smooth, like a baby’s. He wore a kind of tunic, and his neck was so thin you could see the ridged cartilage and the small knob bobbing up and down in his throat.

  He opened the back door of the Tahoe. He leaned inside and took Zarko’s arm, pulling him through the opening with one long tug. Zarko bit back a yelp, and fresh blood bloomed on the bandage wrapping his thigh.

  For the most part, the man in the tunic seemed almost deferential, treating the rest of us more like guests than a carload of trouble. He didn’t even frisk me, and I regretted leaving the Wilson behind, though the feel of the Airlite in my jeans pocket gave some comfort. The air smelled of smoke.

  He ushered the four of us inside, to an unfinished space of exposed beams and sawdust. Two floor lamps were plugged into exposed sockets.

  The finished fireplace against the wall was full of ashes and soot, and empty filing boxes lay scattered on their sides nearby. Two laptops were askew, their screens smashed into spidery shards.

  “Wait here.”

  He left us to stare at a small television set in the corner, and a soccer game underway, with the sound off. Moments later, Stojan walked inside. He opened two folding metal chairs and set them in the middle of the room, facing right.

  “Sit,” he said to Zarko. He lowered into the other chair, left-hand fingers twitching and plucking.

  Zarko and Stojan exchanged a long look before turning to look straight ahead. They looked like a couple of kids awaiting punishment.

  The blue flickering light of the television was distracting. I wished I could turn it off.

  Mila had had enough.

  “Stojan! You tell me,” Mila said. “Now.”

  He answered in Bosnian.

  “No,” Sasha said. “Speak English, Uncle Stojan.”

  Stojan started, as if realizing who the boy was for the first time. He seemed a little zoned out to me, high maybe, although I hadn’t smelled anything worse than mild garlic on him when he leaned into the car. “Okay. I speak English. Tell you what, Mila?”