by Dave Stanton
Escobar leveled his pistol at Jimmy and handed him a cell phone.
“Call them now and tell them you’re on the way.”
“They’re expecting me?”
“That’s right. It’s all been arranged.”
“Wow, you’re really organized, huh?”
“Shut up, pendajo, and make the call.”
“What happens after you have the cash?”
“If it goes smoothly, I’ll drive you back to your friends, and then you can go.”
Jimmy looked at the gun pointed at his face and swallowed. At that moment, he knew Escobar planned to kill him. The only question was when.
• • •
The Wells Fargo in downtown Reno was a brick building adjacent to a Safeway and a long strip of small restaurants and stores. It was four-thirty in the afternoon, half an hour before closing. Jimmy watched the steady flow of people in and out of the bank as Escobar cut the ropes binding his wrists. The parking lot was crowded with shoppers, forcing Escobar to park a few rows from the bank. The Latino put on a Sacramento Kings cap, hiding the ugly tattoos on his forehead. Then he handed Jimmy a black leather satchel, and they left the Blazer and began walking.
A Reno PD cruiser pulled out of a Starbucks and drove within shouting distance.
“Don’t even think about it,” Escobar said. “I’ll shoot you dead.”
Inside the bank, Jimmy took a deep breath and surveyed the scene. A small line of customers waited for three tellers handling transactions behind the counter. To the side, another four bank employees worked at desks. From one of the desks rose a gray-suited Asian woman, her hair in a bun, her smile professional and polite. She introduced herself as the bank manager and escorted them to her short-walled cubicle. She started talking, but Jimmy didn’t hear a word she said.
Forms appeared for Jimmy to sign. While scrawling his signature, he kept looking up, hoping to spot an opportunity, any sign that might embolden him. What if he just bolted from his chair to the front door? Or suppose he simply announced he’d changed his mind and didn’t want to make the withdrawal? How would Escobar react to that—would he risk shooting him in public? Jimmy’s stomach started to tighten in panic. He knew he was running out of time, but he couldn’t bring himself to act.
A few minutes later, a security guard handed Jimmy Escobar’s leather satchel, packed heavy with paper money. “We never recommend cash transactions this large for security reasons,” the bank manager said. “Unless an armored car is involved, one million is the most we can do.” The guard, a white-haired man wearing a sidearm on his hip, stood waiting. Jimmy mumbled a thank you and proceeded toward the exit, followed by Escobar and the guard.
Once in the parking lot, the three men walked silently, Escobar’s gun hand deep in his jacket pocket. When they reached the Blazer, Escobar opened the passenger door and motioned for Jimmy to get in.
“Here, take the money,” Jimmy said, shoving the bag at Escobar, who took his hand from his pocket to grasp it. Then Jimmy darted around the Blazer and scurried behind a row of cars, hunched low. He ran to the next row, then toward the Safeway.
“What the…” the guard said.
Escobar almost pulled his pistol, but in a second realized he’d lost control of the situation, and would need to change plans. Ignoring the guard, he got in the Blazer, wheeled out to the street, and hit the gas.
40
I worked meticulously on my report, trying for a more professional tone than my usual style, and I certainly didn’t include any mention of Cody’s antics. It took a little over an hour to finish and e-mail it to the lady attorney. I stood and stretched and dialed Cody’s cell. When he didn’t pick up, I waited a few minutes and tried again. No answer. I tried him continuously for ten minutes without success. Shaking my head, I pulled from my pocket the sheet of paper with the address where Cody said he could find Jimmy Homestead.
“Well, goddamn it,” I said. Then I went out to the street and flagged down a cab.
Fifteen minutes later the taxi dropped me off and drove away, leaving me staring at my Nissan truck, which was parked in the driveway of a ritzy home on a huge hilltop lot. The house was at least two hundred feet from its nearest neighbor, and the afternoon was quiet. I walked around my truck and saw nothing unusual. I dialed Cody once more, and when he didn’t answer, I started toward the front door of the house. My fist was poised to knock when I noticed a badly trampled row of flowers next to the porch. I stared at the boot prints in the soil and the crushed petals, then went back to my truck. A spare key was in a magnetized case under the bumper, and I found it and unlocked the steel box welded to the bed. I removed my Beretta .40-cal automatic, checked to make sure a round was in the chamber, and stuck it in my coat pocket.
The front door was unlocked. Opening it slowly, I slid into the entryway. The first thing I saw was a reddish stain along the edge of the tan carpeting next to the tiled floor. I looked more closely and also saw a faint red smear on the tile. I pulled my piece from my pocket and crept forward into the kitchen. It was empty. So was the adjoining living room, but when I moved into the hallway, I heard the swish of clothing. I ducked just as a large iron skillet swung past my head. It grazed my shoulder and crashed into my hand, sending my pistol clattering to the hardwood floor. I dived after it, but the weight of the man who jumped on my back slammed me to the ground.
The hallway was narrow, putting me at a disadvantage. Whoever tackled me was heavy and strong, and was trying to punch me into submission. I took a shot to the back of the head that probably hurt him more than me, then I felt his fist raze my ear, but that just made me mad. Without room to maneuver laterally, I shot three quick elbows to his ribs. The man grunted and tried to crawl over me toward my gun. I landed another solid elbow to his midsection and felt him move back, which allowed me to rise to my knees. He tried to take me down again, and I hit him with a snap punch, hoping to break his nose, but I just bruised my knuckles on his forehead. Then he catapulted himself forward, his hand nearly reaching my piece. Before he could grasp it, I jumped on him, got my arm under his neck, and jerked him into a choke hold. He bucked his head and flailed, but I had him firmly, and he was out cold in ten seconds.
Breathing hard, I stepped over his prone body and recovered my gun. My hand was throbbing. I made a fist, checking if the blow from the heavy pan had broken anything. I didn’t think so, but it still hurt like hell.
When the man came to a few seconds later, I grabbed his hair and stuck my pistol in his face. It was only then I recognized him as Sanzini, the dumb-ass biker I’d fought a couple of weeks back, out in front of the cathouse. His dulled eyes stared into mine.
“Where’s Cody Gibbons?” I said.
“Who?”
“The big guy with the beard.”
Sanzini hesitated for a long moment. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Multiple choice question time, asshole. Tell me where he is, or I’ll give you three choices where to take a bullet: The hand, which will make it useless if the doctors don’t amputate it, the foot, meaning you’ll limp for life, or the nuts, and hopefully you can figure that one out on your own.”
“You ain’t gonna shoot me.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said, and kicked him in the chin hard enough to knock him out again. Then I dragged his dead weight out the front door and left him on the driveway. He lay there while I took a pair of handcuffs and my stun baton from my truck. I cuffed him and shoved his inert body into the front seat, then looped a length of chain around the cuffs and padlocked the chain to a steel D-ring protruding from the floor of my passenger seat.
Sanzini’s eyes fluttered open after I waved a stick of smelling salts in front of his nose.
“Let’s try this again. My friend—where is he?”
Sanzini eyed me and shook his head. “I think you broke my jaw,” he said.
“That was nothing,” I said, and jolted him with a medium volt stun blast. His face blanched and hi
s wavy hair straightened. When his body stopped shaking, a string of drool fell from his lips onto his chin. “Fuck! Don’t do that!”
“That was only level five. It goes up to ten.”
“Oh, man.” He closed his eyes tightly.
“Ready for round two?” I said.
“No! All right, they took him, along with some bimbo.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“The freakin’ beaners, man.”
I turned the baton to six and zapped him again. He screamed, and tears coursed down his grainy face.
“I want details. Now. Who, when, and where.”
“The Mexicans,” he blubbered. “They’re the Locos 14 gang. They kidnapped Jimmy Homestead for his money. But they also took this girl and a guy who knocked on the door.”
“Where did they take them?”
“Out to the desert, man, I’m telling you these spics are serious shit, they killed a dude already, and—
“Killed who?”
“This steroid freak who was with Homestead and the bimbo. Escobar just looked at him and blew him away.”
“Here?”
“Yeah, about an hour ago. Then he took off with Homestead, the big dude, and the girl.”
“How many Mexicans?”
“Three.”
“You better know where they went,” I said, poking him with the baton.
“I do. Just keep that freaking thing away from me.”
We drove out to the freeway. Sanzini sat hunched forward, his arms extended between his legs, the short length of chain preventing him from sitting upright.
“Listen, man, I got nothing to do with your friend. He just showed up out of nowhere. Escobar thinks he’s one of Homestead’s buddies.”
“What’s your interest in Homestead?”
“Asshole ripped off an ounce of my stash, man. I’ve been hoping to run into him for three years. When I found out he won the Lotto, I figured it was time to collect.”
“How did the Mexicans get involved?” When he didn’t answer I tapped his head with the baton.
He squeezed his eyes shut, then sighed. “When I couldn’t find Homestead on my own, I went to them and said, hey, there’s this rich dude I need to settle a score with, and I just want like twenty grand out of the deal, but if they get involved they can take him for millions.”
“Did you ever talk to Sheila, Jimmy’s stepmom?”
“No,” Sanzini said, too quickly. “No, I never heard of her. Take this exit. The dirt road is a couple miles ahead.”
I drove down a straight two-lane at ninety until Sanzini told me to slow, then he pointed at a lone tree, a dead bristlecone pine near a break in the barbed wire. The squat trunk was twisted and stripped of bark, the branches bone white. There was no signage marking the unpaved track, just the tree. I pulled over and strapped on my flak jacket and grabbed an extra ten-bullet clip.
“When we get where we’re going, I recommend you keep your head down,” I said.
41
Jimmy bobbed and weaved through the parking lot, zigzagging and sprinting, expecting at any moment to hear the report of Escobar’s pistol and feel a bullet pierce his flesh. But when he stopped, crouched behind a car, he spotted the gray Blazer accelerating toward the exit. He stood in surprise, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Was it that easy? Had he done it? Yes! He had escaped from the cold-blooded, murdering son of a bitch!
“Nine-one-one, nine-one-one!” Jimmy yelled, running around the lot and gesturing wildly. He dodged a minivan and ran up to a lady pushing a cart full of groceries. “Let me use your cell phone—I’ve just been ripped off for a million dollars!”
“Get away from me, you psycho,” she said.
Jimmy spun around and spotted a sheriff’s cruiser on the far side of the lot. He ran as fast as he could toward the cop, who pulled away obliviously.
“Help! I’ve been ripped off!”
Passersby and shoppers stared at him. A group of teens laughed and one said, “Get a life.”
Jimmy finally ran back to the bank, where the elderly security guard waved him down.
“What the hell is going on?”
“That man with me had a gun, and was going to kill me. Fucking Christ, gramps, call the cops!”
Within five minutes a flood of police cars raced into the bank parking lot. Surrounded by patrolmen, Jimmy blurted out his story. It took a few minutes, but once he convinced them that hostages were being held, a policeman opened his car door for Jimmy, hit the siren, and, tires squealing, led a group of squad cars out to the freeway.
• • •
Escobar pushed the Blazer down the rutted trail as fast as he dared, bottoming out the suspension, careening violently and raising a cloud of dust. He was forced to slow when he turned onto the narrow section, to avoid slamming the steep hillside or sliding over the drop. When he reached the entrance to the valley, he pegged the throttle and slid to a stop near the old shack.
Octavio sat against the building, feet splayed, his broken arm propped against his chest. The bottle of tequila in his hand was half empty, and he was passed out drunk. Escobar slapped him hard across the face. “Despierte, stupido.”
Octavio groaned and blinked. Escobar slapped him again and went through the rickety door. The damp interior was cold and lit by a single battery-powered lantern. A solitary piece of furniture, a raw wooden table, stood in the middle of the room. On the table lay Heather Sanderson. A shaft of daylight from the open door fell across her body. She was stripped naked and spread-eagled, her wrists and ankles tied to the table’s legs, her face battered and swollen. She raised her head, then lowered it in despair.
“Put your pants on,” Escobar shouted at Santiago. “I’ve got the money, but the police are coming.”
Escobar rushed out and began replacing the plates on the Blazer, then stopped abruptly. Cody sat tied to the fence post, his face coated with dried blood, his eyes alert and glowering. He was about sixty feet from the Blazer. Escobar opened the back hatch, grabbed his Tec-9 machine pistol, and snapped in a thirty-round clip. He jogged to where Cody was trying to dig his heels into the earth and push back on the post in a futile effort to break it.
“Only a chickenshit pussy would shoot a defenseless man,” Cody said.
Escobar clicked the safety off and leveled the machine gun at Cody. His black eyes were empty, his face expressionless—until he heard the very real sound of a motor revving and rocks spitting from under tires.
• • •
When I came power sliding around the final corner to the small valley where Sanzini told me Cody was being held, the first thing I saw was a dusty gray Chevy Blazer parked next to a small, decrepit structure. To my left I caught a brief glimpse of Cody sitting, his body still as a statue, his great bearded mug staring at me. A man stood near him, a short-barreled machine pistol in his hands. A second later, a burst of automatic fire spider-webbed my windshield. I ducked low, straining to see out of a small section of undamaged glass, and pushed the pedal to the floorboards, accelerating toward the shooting figure. Bullets whirled overhead, ripping holes in the seats and punching through the roof. Glass rained down, and I heard the distinct sound of steam hissing as a series of slugs pounded into my radiator. Then the clatter of the weapon stopped, and the man froze for an instant before he dropped it and ran for the Blazer. But he wasn’t quick enough. I turned and hit him at almost forty miles an hour. His body folded under my bumper, and I felt the bump as my rear tire ran him over.
I scrambled out of the truck and aimed my pistol at the shack. A faint female voice yelled for help from behind the walls. I ran toward the Blazer, and saw a disheveled gangbanger wearing a red bandana stagger from around the building, pointing an automatic. He held the gun sideways, palm down, arm extended. It may have been a trendy gangster style, and I’m sure he thought it looked cool, but it is not an effective way to aim in a combat situation. His shot went wide, and I slid to a knee and returned fire, hitting him in the chest. Ther
e is no mistaking the outcome when a man is shot in the torso from twenty feet with a hollow-point .40-cal round. The man fell forward, a fist-sized hole in his back. He shuddered briefly and died.
Sanzini said there were three, and I assumed the third man was in the shack with the girl. He would either come out on his own or come out holding her hostage. Regardless, Cody was in an extremely vulnerable position. Keeping my eyes on the shack, I ran back to my truck for a knife, then reached behind the driver’s seat and took my back-up piece from its hiding place. It was a Glock 9mm, a weapon I considered inferior to the Beretta, but no less deadly. Sanzini was crouched as low as he could get in the passenger’s seat.
“You hit?” I asked.
“No,” he rasped.
“Stay down.”
I sprinted the twenty yards to where Cody was tied.
“Having fun yet?” I said, cutting the ropes around his wrists.
“Give me that piece. There’s one still in there with a rifle.” Cody pushed himself to his feet, his eyebrows creased low over his eyes, blood caked and scaled on his face.
“You go left,” he said, running behind my bullet-riddled truck, the Glock trained at the shack. I took position behind the rear of the Blazer. We were no sooner in place when the door opened and a Hispanic man in his forties stepped out holding a large hunting rifle, probably a 30-06, to the head of a naked blond woman. Even though she had been roughed up some, the natural beauty of her face was striking. So was her curvaceous, tanned body, which could have only belonged to a stripper. I wondered if he had raped her yet.
“Drop the gun, gringo,” he said. I didn’t think he could see Cody crouched behind my truck from his angle.
“Okay, don’t hurt her,” I said, dangling my gun from the trigger guard. He lowered the rifle and pointed it at me, and that was all the room Cody needed. The girl jumped as a blast split the air, and the Latino’s head exploded, his hair, teeth, brains, and gore painting the wood slats behind him. His body collapsed in a blood-soaked mess.