Snatched

by Cullars, Sharon

  Rez had obviously gathered information on the Jamaican's hideout with this night in mind. Hills surrounded them on various sides and Dele immediately calculated that topography could actually prevent carnage. Hills could stop bullets, provide cover. Still, the valley allowed sniping and the Demons had guns with sights that would allow them to hit a quarry from several feet away.

  Rez sent word that the men had to take the hills by foot, with the weight of their artillery on their backs after which they would descend into the valley. The gang members probably hadn't expected this amount of exertion, especially the older crew. There was some grumbling and cursing but they continued anyway, more intimidated by Rez's wrath than they were from their breathless excursion. Dele felt his chest wound flaring up as he ascended up a steep slope. The sound of pebbles dropping warned him of the possibility of unexpected rock slides, a usual occurrence in the mountain. As each man reached the top of the rock, they then had to go down slopes with sharp descents. One wrong step and a man could fall several feet.

  The whole setup was an utter fail from the point of view of the Demons. Just climbing the hills wore out older and out-of-shape members, diminishing the full strength of the crew. The geography was probably a key factor why the Jamaicans had chosen such an out-of-the way location for their quarters. They had access to footpaths and bike paths for quick escape. There were trees along the valley outskirts among which they could store their wares out of the way of prying eyes. Water tributaries could hide their scent from dogs in case they needed to get away. Basically what was a strategic mess for the Demons made logistical sense for the other gang.

  From the crest of the hill the lit homes of Pasadena sparkled like distant stars. Thankfully, the nearby bike paths were closed tonight but Dele couldn't be sure there weren't lone stragglers who could get caught up in the crossfire.

  Where the hell were the other gang members anyway? Dele couldn't see any structures that would serve as headquarters or some type of meeting place. But Rez trudged on, leading his scraggly crew determined to bring the Jamaicans down and get Corrall out of the way.

  Finally when every man had descended into the valley, Dele wondered why no one had remained on some of the rock croppings above for cover. Now they were the ones vulnerable if any of the other gang members ascended with rifles or semi-automatics. Rez obviously hadn't considered this. Instead he kept moving toward his target, toward Corrall, and the other men dutifully followed.

  Dele had a bad feeling about this. Not so much the confrontation. Something about this just didn't make any sense. For one, even given the strategic location, it didn't seem to have any true indication of any habitation.

  Rez moved toward an area of conifers. Maybe the gang house was hidden in the copse of trees. Hardly any light, even with a full moon. This again just didn't make any sense.

  When a shadow moved away from one of the trees, Dele initially thought that it was just a Demon who had gone off track. The new man came up on another of the crew. What happened next occurred with lightning speed. First a muffled sound, and then a grunt of pain.

  The second man went down with hardly a sound.

  The immediate smell of blood hit Dele and he turned just as the shadow came up on him. Instinct kicked in as he dodged a large knife that was meant to thrust into his back.

  He grabbed the shadow with one hand and butted the handle of the glock where he estimated the man's head was. It made contact and with a grunt the man went down.

  Dele knew from the sounds of surprise and pain and the sudden gun reports that the Demons had been set up. They had walked into a trap.

  Dele immediately headed deeper into the trees, traveling as fast as he could to distance himself from the moving shadows. He couldn't tell who was friend or foe in the inky dark of the trees. Obviously the Jamaicans had some sort of visual advantage over the Demons. In his trek he nearly fell into one of the many tributaries that flowed down the hills.

  The splash of water must have alerted one of the shadows because it stopped and headed back in Dele's direction. Before Dele could escape the man was standing over him. Even though he could only sense the attacker, the other man could obviously see him a whole lot better. Dele took a chance and without a thought of legal protocol, aimed for the man's face just as the man squeezed off a shot. Even given the attacker's visual advantage, instinct made Dele move just as both guns went off.

  He got his man full in the face and the body collapsed near him splashing into the water.

  The sounds of screams cut short and semi-automatics being shot in the dark brought on the sense of a full war zone. Somewhere he heard Rez shouting and cursing, this followed by what sounded like the report of a Ruger. But then it was hard to differentiate the sounds of any of the guns the Demons had brought with them, let alone what weapons the Jamaicans had on them. They were obviously more versatile tonight: knives and guns.

  Dele crawled along the bank of the water, settled among the base of a chaparral. Even with the cover of night and foliage, Dele knew he couldn't stay there indefinitely. Not that he had any loyalty to any of the Demons, many of whom would not hesitate to kill him if they found a reason, he still couldn't just sit there without trying to stop the wholesale slaughter.

  Somehow the Jamaicans had gotten word about Rez's plans and had made sure he had gotten bad info. Their headquarters had never been here; it probably wasn't anywhere near the Valley. But the geography of the San Raphael hills provided a good vantage for an ambush.

  Rez and his crew were street fighters, more fit to fight in urban settings. The Jamaicans had counted on their rusty skills. And if Rez had brought over a hundred members, Dele figured from the sound of the melee that the other crew numbered at least that many if not more.

  Dele followed the direction where he'd last heard Rez's yells. Just outside the group of trees was a moonlit valley floor of bodies and shadows. Shadows knifing other shadows, guns being aimed and bodies dropping.

  Dele couldn't take a body count but he suspected many of the still forms on the ground were Demons. Pretty soon, he and any surviving members would be outnumbered and more vulnerable.

  "Take that muthafucker!" Rez's voice rose above the sounds of war. Dele saw him in the more lit area of the valley arena. Moonlit, Rez's face was in a grimace as he shot off a round directly in the heart of his adversary. From what Dele could see, the slain Jamaican wasn't Corrall. If Corrall was even here.

  Rez's plan had been torn apart before it had even taken form. Someone had sold him out, sold out the Demons.

  As Dele emerged from his sanctuary, the body fell and Rez immediately looked around for someone else to kill. In the moonlight, his eyes fell on Dele with recognition.

  But it was obvious from the man's face he did not consider Dele an ally.

  "You did this muthafucker, you told them we were coming! That's what all that shit was about back at the warehouse! You set us up!"

  Dele watched the Ruger raised toward his chest. Right at his heart. In the adrenaline of the fighting, Dele had overcome his pain. Survival was key. Surviving was everything. ATF and police protocol be damned.

  Just as he had done with the Jamaican, he instinctively shifted his whole body and at the same time shot off a round, not sure if it would hit.

  The bullet caught him in the shoulder and was powerful enough to knock him down. As he fell, he saw Rez's body go down. His bullet had hit the man in the neck. Strangely, the eyes nearly glimmered in the moonlight. Vacant, non-seeing eyes.

  Rez had finally gotten his due. And at the hands of a "Demon."

  The pain was overwhelming. He was bleeding again and he just didn't have the strength to recover from this.

  As Dele lay there, he listened to the chorus of more screams. One of them sounded familiar. Sounded like Skeet. Just as the haze drew him in, his last conscious thought was that maybe Carolyn was finally free.

/>   Chapter 17

  He woke up to the smell of antiseptics, the sounds of a gurney being wheeled, and to a dull pain throbbing in his chest.

  It took him a few minutes to gather that he was the one being wheeled.

  Tubes fed into and out of him. At least three masked faces looked down on him. One of them said, "Good you're awake. Just in time. We couldn't locate any next of kin and we need to get you into surgery right away. Do we have your permission?"

  Dele couldn't move his neck or shoulders. But he was able to whisper a weak "Yes" before he passed out again.

  ###

  "Hey man, wake up," a familiar voice broke through the cloud surrounding his head, deafening his hearing.

  Dele's eyes fluttered open and a world of gray and white began taking form.

  A caricature of Jud stood there, his face nothing but angles and circles. Dele blinked deliberately until the shapes made sense and a clearer image emerged. The agent was dressed in a Grateful Dead shirt and jeans, his standard office "uniform." He only dressed in standard wear when formal meetings between the ATF and LAPD were scheduled. His attempt to fight the "man" while still working within the system.

  Dele's chest felt tight but he couldn't look down to determine why.

  He pointed and Jud nodded.

  "You had some metal near your shoulder and yeah, there was that old knife wound you forgot to call in. But then, you forgot to inform us about a whole hell of a lot. Including that, you know, little squirmish you and the gang got into. I know we have no love loss back at the office, but feel free to share man, especially when your ass is getting kicked. As it is, we barely got you out of there in time. If you feel a little tightness that comes from several hours of surgery followed by being wrapped up like the mummy."

  Things still weren't making sense.

  The last thing he remembered was Rez. Rez falling down with a bullet.

  Rez was dead and he was the one who'd killed him.

  He felt as though he had defeated the Wicked Witch of the West. Now all he needed was a pair of red shoes to take him home.

  He tried to speak, found he could only do it with effort.

  "Hey man, just settle back," Jud aka Judson Pierce said with less of his usual casual cadence. There was actual concern in the agent's voice which made Dele realize that his bout with death had been closer than he'd thought.

  He was determined to get his question out despite the pain and foggy head.

  "How did you find me?" he asked, each word pronounced carefully, painfully.

  "Your friend you stashed at the Elan. She found your secret wallet compartment. I told you that wasn't a safe place for anything sensitive."

  Nailah. Nailah had found the number he'd stashed away in case anything happened to him. The number was a safety net, a lifeline, for just such an occasion as he had managed to live through. He'd forgotten that it was in the wallet. And somehow Nailah had found it. And contacted Jud. How did she know to call?

  "She was pretty persistent. Kept calling me even after men had been dispatched. I was able to finally trace her, pick her up. Got some details from her. But you can thank her for the save. She gave us enough information to track down one of Corrall's men. We had info on their various houses, managed to close in on the parakeet who sang us a song about a killing field. Seems Rez or Richard Langley the name his mama gave him, talked a little too much, put the word on the street how he was going to take down Corrall's gang. Corrall got wind, had someone provide "information" on the Jamaican's supposed stomping ground. Man, what an idiot. Who goes into the Valley at night with hardly any light."

  "They saw us," Dele wheezed but couldn't get any more words out. Jud understood and nodded.

  "Some of them were wearing night goggles, man. They set y'all up good. That's basically why the Demons got squashed like a bug."

  The word "bug" brought up another problem.

  "Roach…"

  Jud was ahead of him. He nodded. "At the coroner's. Government name is Larry Smithers. Guess you're going to have to give some report on how that came to be another one of your kills."

  Dele nodded. Yes, Roach would remain his kill, not Nailah's. Hopefully, she hadn't said anything.

  Another effort to talk cost him energy but he managed to ask, "Where is she?"

  "She's safe man. We put her up at another hotel, a little ritzier. Before we settled her in, we brought her in, got some of the story out about what you neglected to tell me. By the way, she only knows you as Dele. We didn't tell her the real deal. Thought you'd like to inform the lady. By the way, she's smoking hot. Wish I could make friends like that."

  Dele felt tired, wanted to close his eyes. Realized that he had indeed closed his eyes. Sleep was pulling him down into nirvana.

  But before he went fully under, he heard Jud say,

  "She really did save your life man. We wouldn't have found you without her call. You're one of the lucky ones. Body count, nearly fifty Demons, just twenty or so of Corrall's crew. The only reason you are alive is that the Jamaicans probably took you for dead when you passed out. That's what they called in when the responders initially found you. For a second or two you had me worried. Then word got out that you were alive but barely. Have to admit I said a prayer or two and you know I'm an agnostic. But thought it couldn't hurt under the circumstances.

  Dele entered his first of several dreams that night. Jud stood over him trying to lift him up off the Valley floor. Rez's body morphed into a cockroach. And somewhere in the distance Nailah stood watching. She was dressed in something sheer and white, like an angel. Like a guardian angel. His guardian angel.

  ###

  It felt strange to be wearing blues again. Eric McIntyre aka Dele formerly of the Demons sat outside the captain's office sporting a full uniform ready to sit down with Judson as the liaison ATF agent, Eric's supervisor as well as a couple of brass from the ATF. He'd filed his report weeks ago but he guessed some of the holes in the report had raised flags. Most of all, he was in trouble for not getting word back on the gang war. Men had died unnecessarily.

  And there was the issue of Nailah. The hot water he was in was especially boiling about exposing a civilian to dangerous circumstances.

  There would be reprimands that would go on record. He wasn't certain they wouldn't kick him off the force altogether.

  After waiting an excruciating fifteen minutes or more, he was finally summoned into the inner sanctum.

  An hour later, he exited, fully censored and sanctioned up to his neck, but he still had a job, at least.

  ###

  He hated desk duty. Hated how the hours dragged.

  But most of all, he hated that he hadn't seen Nailah since he dropped her off at the hotel. He hadn't been allowed to speak with her during her questioning by the police.

  He had orders not to contact her. It was basically a PR save. And there was the pesky possibility that she might bring a suit.

  He didn't care about any of that.

  She hadn't even called to check in on him. He almost died, partly because he wanted to protect her and she couldn't spare him even a couple of minutes on the phone.

  He got it. She was angry and she had reason to be. She'd been through hell. And throughout it all he had basically lied to her about his identity.

  She probably felt foolish that she'd trusted him. Had turned to him as a friend. Had taken him as a lover, no matter how briefly.

  That was something that she'd kept to herself otherwise he would definitely have been fired.

  He twiddled a pencil between his thumb and forefinger, then looked up to see a familiar figure heading his way. The pencil twirling paused as he uttered an expletive beneath his breath. She was one of the last people he'd expected to see walk into the precinct.

  Carolyn spotted him from the doorway.

  Obviously at least
she had gotten word about his true identity otherwise she wouldn't be here.

  She was another sore point he'd left out of his report. She was his one true failing, his true shame. He'd let the life take over instead of keeping to protocol. The two of them should have never happened.

  Just like he and Nailah shouldn't have happened.

  She headed to his desk walking through the office maze of officers and perps, never once taking her gaze off him.

  Her eye was fully healed and had no sign of the injury Skeet had inflicted.

  Skeet was dead, that bit was confirmed by the coroner. Given name Steven Blaque.

  Why was she here?

  "Carolyn," he said as she sat down in the seat opposite his desk. Unlike her previous outfits, she wore a conservative shirt and a pair of jeans. The most demure he had ever seen her.

  He owed her an apology but he didn't know how to get the words out. So he let her begin the conversation.

  "So, it's true what Sid told me."

  Sid. His first thought was how the hell had Sid found out, but then he realized that surviving members were being pulled in for questioning regarding the slaughter. And the drugs. There was no longer any reason to shield "Dele" since Eric had been fully resurrected.

  Probably why Carolyn was here, but she would hardly know anything about that night. Or the trafficking or anything else.

  Kismet had a funny way of working itself as a coincidence because at that moment Carolyn said something pivotal.

  "I know about the bodies, about the girl…"