by Ian Jones
Dying for LA
Ian Jones
Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Copyright
Chapter One
Late Sunday; February, in Downtown Los Angeles.
John Smith wandered along slowly on his way to 7th Street Metro Station. All around him huge buildings towered up, normally this would be a bustling area but now the streets were quiet, it had just gone ten in the evening and the city was winding down, getting ready for the week to start all over again the next day. He had enjoyed a good meal in an expensive Chinese restaurant, courtesy of a grateful customer. His work in the city was complete and he was considering staying a couple of nights extra to have a good look around. He had never spent a great deal of time in LA so he was interested to see what it had to offer, then he could get on a plane and go and see his daughter in New York.
He had enjoyed dinner that evening, a restaurant that despite the day of the week had been busy. The food had been excellent and the service impeccable. Despite his initial reservations the evening had been worthwhile, it was likely there would be even more work as a result.
It took him a while to find the station, there was no signpost but eventually he found it, on a corner behind thick black pillars. He was still out of sync with LA time so he decided to stop by at an Irish bar just round the corner and sat down with a Miller Lite watching premiership football on the screen in front of him. West Ham were beating Liverpool. The guy sat next to him was watching NFL on the three other screens which were all in a line along one wall and they cheerfully criticised each other’s choice of football to watch, until Liverpool scored an equaliser and his sparring partner decided that actually more was happening on John’s screen and bought him another beer, and they sat watching until the final whistle blew.
John politely declined the offer of more to drink and then left. He walked down to the corner, entered into the station and went through the turnstiles and then down the steps to the right platform. It wasn’t too busy, no more than twenty or so people waiting. He wandered about half way along and leant against the wall next to a staircase, waiting. There were stone seats in a square further along with an old drunk sitting at the other end smiling to himself and softly singing ‘Dirty Old Town’. The other waiting passengers were spread out disparately along the platform, standing singly or in small groups. Close to John two women stopped to wait, one was repeatedly checking her watch. She twisted around to look down the tunnel and a mobile phone fell from the bulky handbag she was clutching. John bent forward and picked it up then handed it back to her. she took it and stared blankly at him.
‘Thank you,’ the other woman told him with a frown at her companion.
John nodded and went back to leaning on the wall.
The information message was unchanging, it seemed to have settled on the next train being two minutes away.
Everything was calm and serene, people were just waiting patiently for the train, it was the end of the weekend, time to be at home.
Suddenly there was a shout, followed by a shrill scream, then another, louder. More shouts. Sudden panic and yelling all coming from where a set of stairs descended. John turned to look and saw a man running fast down the platform toward him, his mouth wide open. Behind him were two men in pseudo-combat uniforms, moving stealthily forward and aiming assault rifles and he could see more similarly dressed figures visible behind. John didn’t think twice; he didn’t stop to wonder what was going on or if there was anything he could do, he instantly threw himself down against the wall he was leaning on, into the corner tight to against the floor just as the guns started firing single shots; repeatedly, deafeningly loud in the confined space, sounds of breaking glass and ricochets and then silence. Muffled sobs, footsteps, and then more shots, closer this time and then a loud thump.
Silence again. More footsteps, then another couple of single shots.
Silence.
Then rapid fire, a short burst, forward to where John was lying, two guns that were moving, bullets suddenly blasting and raking across the wall then into the floor. A chunk of thick tile shot up and struck him hard on the forehead. He screwed his eyes up in pain and could feel warm blood running down.
Footsteps moving cautiously close by. Short muffled conversation.
Slowly, carefully, John moved his head to look. He could see the body of the woman who had dropped her phone lying on her side, and another close by. Impossible to tell if they were alive or dead. Next to them there was a pair of scuffed combat boots, then another pair appeared, walking hesitantly, and stopped. Two men were standing there together. One of them put down an AK-47, leaning it against the wall right where John had been standing. John could see it in his peripheral vision. His instincts took over. It was an old original model, wooden stock. It looked well cared for, and fitted with a standard magazine. Thirty rounds. The gun had been placed with the selector lever facing him, he could see it was set to single. There was a carving in the stock near the shoulder rest; 1-Too. It rang a bell, but he couldn’t place it. But there was only one important thing: and that was there was a gun. Right next to him.
So …
How many shots have been fired?
Would the magazine have been full in the first place?
Had this gun even been used at all?
If not, did it operate?
How many men were there in total? He could see the two for sure, and could hear at least one voice calling from further away.
He moved his eyes again, careful not to move his head. The two men were facing each other, side on to him. There was rattling, and then a bag dropped to the floor. It was the bag the woman had been holding.
‘Nothing?’ he heard one man ask with a heavy accent.
‘Nothing there,’ was the reply.
Then a shout from one of the men, a couple of words, in a language John had heard before but couldn’t place. A shout in return from a distance, and then another from the same place but moving away. Then the bag was kicked hard, and it skittered away, scattering its contents across the floor.
‘It’s not here!’ a shout, in English.
Muted conversation, and a different bag was kicked heavily.
One set of feet turned away slightly, then the other. More muttered conversation, then raised voices, cursing, not in English.
It was clear the men were annoyed about something, distracted.
John grabbed his chance. Do or die.
He tensed up and then rolled swiftly out from the corner, grabbing the gun and whirling round, yanking the operating handle as he did so. A round shot out the ejector port and still moving up on to his knees he fired twice, hitting both men; one in the chest and the other in the neck; the second man’s gun dropping to the floor with a clatter and then he was moving, running fast and aiming toward the end of the platform to the exit, where he had heard the shouts. He could see one man moving up and he sprinted down the remainder of the platform and fired up, hitting the man near the top and he fell, rolling and then being carried upward on the escalator.
He moved steadily up following the body with the gun held out in front of him and reached the top then walked forward and cautiously turned the corner. He reached the next set of stairs and headed upward slowly, still keeping the gun trained forwards. At the top he saw the street, there was no sign of anyone there, then he heard shouting again from behind him so he ran back down to the platform, taking in the scene properly for the first time. Everyone was still on the floor. There was a man sitting slumped close to him who was calling out for help, over and over.
‘Call 911. Right away,’ John ordered.
The man closed his mouth with a snap and looked back at him, shocked, staring at the gun in his hand.
‘Do it,’ John told him. ‘Now. And then get on up to the street to wait for them.’
The man nodded rapidly and pulled out a mobile phone.
John walked further down. All around him people were staring up at him, frightened, totally bewildered.
‘If you are unhurt please stand up, there is no danger now. Head upstairs,’ he called out.
Slowly, people began to stand, looking all around them, dazed. There was a body not moving close to him so John knelt down next to it, laying the gun down. It was a woman, she had been hit twice in the chest. Her eyes were staring at him but she had a weak pulse. John pulled his jacket off and balled it up and pressed it hard against her chest.
‘Come here,’ he ordered to a man who was standing watching. ‘Look, keep the pressure on, hard, we have to try and limit the blood loss do you understand?’
The man nodded, bent down and did what he was told.
There was another woman lying further down. She was on her back by the edge of the platform, John went over to her but he knew she was dead immediately, there were gunshot wounds across her stomach and chest and a lot of blood. There was a third woman’s body right next to her, lying on its side facing away from him. Also dead.
He returned back to where he had been on the platform. The drunk was looking wildly around, muttering. The two women that had been standing there were now lying on the floor. He couldn’t see if they were alive or dead so needed to help. As he knelt down he heard the sirens and then within minutes the platform was crawling with LAPD and not long afterward the medics arrived.
Gratefully he stepped back and let the professionals get on with it. He looked up and down. People were moving, shocked and glad to be alive, trying not to look at the bodies prone on the platform, including the two attackers he had shot. LAPD officers were talking to people, and he could now see several were pointing at him, which was inevitable.
A young officer with cropped black hair walked over to him.
‘Sir, can you raise your hands?’ he asked as got close, one hand instinctively moving to the butt of the gun at his belt.
Obligingly John did so, laying his palms flat on his head. Another officer came over and searched his jeans pockets, but there was nothing to find other than a couple of hundred dollars in cash and a hotel key card.
‘Er … sir? We’ve been told … I understand sir that you shot the two men that are over there, is that correct?’ the first one asked, looking confused.
John nodded.
‘Yeah, and there’s another one. Upstairs.’
‘So, sir is it correct to say that you attacked, the er … the attackers? You used their own gun?’ the same officer asked.
John nodded again.
‘Sir, my name is Officer Rose, and this is Officer Macker. We need to move you to where somebody senior can talk to you. We have to ask you not to speak to anyone else here at this time. I hope that this is not a problem.’
‘No problem,’ John told him quietly.
‘Sir, do you have any identification on you?’
John walked over to where the first woman was lying, now being worked on by paramedics. His blood-soaked jacket was lying discarded on the floor, he dug into the inside pocket and handed over his passport. Rose took it gratefully, flicked quickly through it and then pushed it into his breast pocket.
Officer Macker, who had been speechlessly staring at him spoke to first time.
‘Jesus. You got their weapon and you turned it on them. I never heard nothing like that. In my mind, that makes you Superman. Sir.’
John shook his head.
The drunk, who was shuffling along behind them, called over as they led John down the platform, his voice shrill.
‘I’ve seen some things in my life. Terrible fucking things make a man weep. But this man. You look after this man. He is a fucking hero. He saved all of us. You hear me!!! A fucking hero!!!’
John grimaced and Macker patted him heavily on the shoulder as they ascended the escalator, then went around the corner and back up to street level.
Upstairs was a hive of activity. All that could be seen was a sea of flashing red and blue lights. There were TV crews already at the location and people being held back by a police cordon. Rose and Macker led John over to one side and he sat down heavily on the floor, suddenly very tired.
Macker looked closely at the wound on John’s head.
‘That’s going to need sutures. I’ll get a medic. Can I get you a drink, some water?’
‘Please,’ John replied gratefully and the officer moved away, returning with a paramedic and a plastic bottle, unscrewing the cap as he passed it over. John drank deeply.
The medic worked on John’s head.
‘It’s deep, but there’s not a lot of flesh here. Just thin skin and thick bone. That’s why it always bleeds a lot and looks bad,’ he commented conversationally as he worked.
Macker stiffened and nodded to Rose. Two men were walking toward them, both with a distinct air of authority. One was tall, late fifties maybe, smartly dressed with a bewildered look on his face as he turned his head from side to side while he walked. In front of him was another man, a few years younger, short and stocky with a red face and a tie done up tight around his neck. He was wearing an LAPD vest over his shirt and carried a radio. He stopped close to the stairs and looked around, and then walked quickly over to where John was sitting. Macker moved over to meet him but he was pushed brusquely aside.
‘You the man?’ he barked at John, then looked at Rose. ‘Is this the man?’
‘Yes sir. This is the man. John Smith sir. He saved nearly everyone in the station. Sir.’
The man looked stonily back at him and then down at John again.
‘Mr Smith? My name is Captain Truman. I’m sure you appreciate that we have a lot of questions. There has been a terrorist incident and we need to ensure the safety of the vicinity and let the public know the situation. We can’t speak here for obvious reasons, so I am going to get you taken down to the precinct. I will get there as soon as I can. Meantime, please don’t talk to anyone.’
With that he glared at Rose and pulled him away barking instructions to him and then swept away down the stairs. Rose walked back over looking very uneasy and sat down silently next to John. For a few minutes they watched all the activity, the people from the platform were now slowly being led out of the station into the media circus, flashlights popping and a scrum at the cordon.
With a heavy sigh Rose stood up.
‘Come on John, we need to get you out of here,’ he said qu
ietly.
John stood up and with Macker and Rose flanking him they headed out of the station. Immediately there was a surge forward and reporters with microphones held out began shouting to him. There was a flurry of bright blinding flashlights. John allowed himself to be steered through, police officers pushing back the crowd for them. The area was packed with people. They barged their way toward the line of police cars and as they got near a woman burst forcefully through, a man trailing behind and holding up a camera, a light shining.
‘Hey, no,’ Rose said and turned to face her but the woman was determined and pushed past holding a microphone.
‘How bad was it, did you see anyone getting killed? Have you got anything to say to these people?’ she asked loudly, the camera fixed on John.
He turned and held out his hands to Rose and Macker, and then looked at the camera.
‘Yeah. I’ve got something to say. I’m going to find the arseholes that were responsible for this. And I’m going to make them pay, whoever and wherever they are. That’s a promise.’
The woman looked back dumbfounded, probably speechless for the first time in her life.
Rose guided John into the back of a patrol car and slammed the door closed, and the two officers got in the front and with Macker driving eased through the crowd and were away.
Chapter Two
Yann Voorhees watched the footage from the scene at the Metro station on the TV and pressed the pause button on the TIVO remote when he heard a sound and the door opening into the apartment. Voorhees turned his head slowly and eyed the two men walking in, Rico in front. Behind him Sal nervously closed the door, staying back, out of the way.
Rico walked into the small room, which was an exact square with no windows, an unmade bed and the TV in it. The apartment was their temporary base, or so they had been told, but they had been there more than four months already. He glanced warily at Voorhees who was looking at him appraisingly.
Yann Voorhees was huge. Literally. He weighed over four hundred pounds and stood six three. His head was absolutely massive, with bizarrely tiny piggy eyes which stared out, unblinking from the fat fleshy round face. He always wore dark coloured gowns with baggy trousers and bright flip-flops. Rico absently wondered where he got his clothes from. They had been together here for some time now, and nobody really knew anything about Voorhees, not even Rico and he was Number One, basically a supervisor. A title bestowed upon him randomly by Voorhees while they ate yet another pizza in the tiny kitchen. Rico couldn’t work the man out at all; he never left the apartment, not once. Without him, the men used to go to a bar some evenings, but this had been stopped a few weeks before following an incident which had brought attention to them and made Voorhees furious. Rico had sorted the problem out and done it very well but had felt the wrath even so. Occasionally they would return to the apartment after driving out past Barstow having spent hours shooting at targets in the desert and he wouldn’t have moved, although there was often a pizza box empty on the kitchen table. And he really smelled, sour, unwashed. Plus, he never smiled; Rico had not seen him do it once.