by Bella Knight
“That demon skull tattoo with the guns is the emblem of the Viete Malvado, Evil Wind. This ugly dude is Ignacio Carillo Talamantes. He is the illegitimate son of a cartel kingpin of the Los Zetas cartel, Benicio Martinez Talamantes. He is a ruthless, dangerous psychopath. He seems to have picked up one or two of the Blacksnakes, foot soldiers mostly. We think he has found one of these caches of guns, and probably some cash.”
“Not good,” said Gregory.
“Very not good,” said Saber. “Mother fucker killed two agents, one ATF, one DEA, that we know of. Two more are missing, both ATF. We don’t know if they went dark, or went dead.” He sighed. “He runs drugs and money up from Mexico. We think he’s trying to prove himself to Daddy, or become bigger than he is and crush him later. He treats women like tissues. We think he wants to deal drugs, guns, or both on the Res, something the tribal police are very actively trying to prevent. The Paiute have more and more cottage industries going; they would rather spend their money on roads, and clinics, and schools. The Iron Knights have been patrolling over there, and some of your people, including Henry, have been covering shifts for them because Henry wanted to help. We think they saw your logo and thought your people were the ones standing in the way of their expansion.”
Gregory stood up, walked around his chair, and then sat down. He finished his cola and crushed his can with his hand. He threw a perfect, three-point shot to drop the can in the trash.
“We’re taking them down, every last one of these fuckers,” he growled.
“What he said,” said Ivy. “What’s the plan?”
“We have three,” said Wraith. “Contact them to trade guns, money, or access to the Res in exchange for Inola, your missing member.”
“Plan A,” said Gregory.
“Take them down,” said Saber. “If we can find out where they’re holding Inola. And, they keep moving around, renting houses in poor neighborhoods and abandoning them if things get too hot.”
“Plan B,” said Gregory.
“Or we can try to infiltrate them,” said Saber.
“Absolutely not,” said Gregory. “I trust Ghost to do it, but they treat women like tissue paper.”
“Not you,” said Saber. “Us.”
Ivy looked at them both. “We’ll have your backs, as much as we can. Ghost and Killa can infiltrate most poor neighborhoods, and we can mess Tito up a bit and send him in if necessary.”
“Where are these ghosty killers?” asked Saber.
Ivy gave a hint of a smile. “Let’s find them, shall we?” she said.
Bonnie was helping Ghost and Killa lay out the frame for an electric, blue trike.
Ivy walked up. “Ghost, Killa, this is Saber and Wraith. They want help sliding into a nasty-ass group called the Viente Malvado.”
“Dey de ones took Inola?” asked Ghost, putting down her wrench.
“We think yeah,” said Ivy. “They want to use the Paiute Nation to run guns and drugs, and Henry stopped them. They got pissed.”
“We takin’ dem out?” asked Ghost.
“Yeah,” said Ivy.
“We find ‘em, we get you in,” said Ghost, wiping down her hands. “We go talk to Leticia.”
Ivy handed each woman some C-notes. “They like to do what we saw today, rent a house in a poor neighborhood they can ditch real fast. Keep it on the down-low. We get these two in, they get taken down as hard as possible. These sons-of-bitches are evil to women. Don’t get touched or taken.”
“We be good,” said Ghost. “I got Killa.” They smiled ghosty smiles, and went to their bikes and roared off.
Wraith nodded. “You’ve got gangbangers working for you as mechanics,” she said.
“Working for themselves,” said Ivy. “They pay rent on the bay, and they help people tune their bikes or with custom builds.”
“Make good money at it, too,” said Bonnie, boxing up the parts and putting tools away. “You get them hurt, I’ll kill you myself, she said, pointing a wrench in Wraith and Saber’s direction.
“We hear you,” said Saber. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“You’ll do more than that,” said Bonnie. “Those girls just got married, found happiness after a lifetime of nothing. You let them get hurt, you’se as bad as those ones you’re hunting.”
“I get that,” said Wraith. “I got two of mine missing. I know you’ve got someone missing. Don’t want to lose people finding them. People are chess pieces, you can’t exchange one for another.”
Bonnie nodded. “You keep my girls real safe.”
Ivy went back inside, the agents following her like ducks. She walked in, and walked up to the board. She gave up, walked to another board. She wrote, “Find Inola” on the top and began making another list. She checked off Ghost and Killa looking for the neighborhood. She had anyone she could find looking at the area near the airport, and the stuff out on the edge of town, the area around MLK. She had people go out, looking for bikes.
She slapped her own head and turned to Gregory. “Call Pinto down at the mosque. The Justice Riders are near there. They’ll find them fast.”
“On it,” said Gregory.
“Pinto?” said Wraith.
“Old friend. Some of the Justice Riders ride with us. Tariz, Muhammad, Ulysses. They are awesome people.” She sighed. “I should have asked for their help before this.”
Gregory left the room, talking on his cell. Ivy wrote down more things, like visiting Letitia (for Ghost and Killa), and dividing up the grid. She had people get into cars —the bikes thundering down the street would give them away. Travis had an electric skateboard. He looked like a skinny teenager on it, which meant that he blended right in.
“What am I missing?” asked Ivy.
Gregory came up behind her. “Pinto says they heard about the raid earlier. Says he’s glad we got Henry back. Says his people will go off-bike and roam, looking for the bikes. He says a bunch of white and Hispanic bikers shouldn’t be that hard to find if they went elsewhere in Alphabet City.”
Ivy nodded. Gregory handed her another Coke. She stared at the board, looking for something she missed.
“We’ll need another food run.”
“Barbecue!” said Bonnie, coming in, her arms full with bags. People rushed to help her.
“Well, that worked out well,” said Ivy, turning back to the board. “Let’s pair up our people with the Iron Knights. Most of them have cars and trucks, too. Most of us don’t.”
“On it,” said Gregory, pulling out his phone.
“Who do we know?” Ivy asked herself. She remembered a name. “Ask Tommy at the junkyard. Pay him to rent some beaters to drive around.”
Tito looked over her shoulder. “On it,” he said, whipping out his phone.
“Damn, woman,” said Saber. “You jump, they say how high.”
“Damn right,” said Ivy. “I know what I’m missing. Let’s walk.”
They went out to their bikes. “They want a trade, they’ll get one. They’ll be needing cash to fund their little war. I know a guy.”
“What kind of guy?” asked Wraith.
“The guy I call when someone passes me a counterfeit bill.”
“Your banker?” asked Saber, confused.
“Secret Service,” said Wraith.
“Got it in one. Let’s go,” said Ivy.
The Secret Service agent was Marcus Fisch. He was tall, gangly, with a narrow face, and even narrower eyes. Even on his off time, he wore a suit. Ivy knew his home number and met him outside a coffee shop across the street.
“You want counterfeit money for a ransom?” he asked.
“We got Henry back; he’s in the hospital with a skull fracture and other injuries. He put up a hell of a fight. Inola is out there, and she’s injured. Badly injured. We need to get Inola back. Wraith is DEA, and Saber is ATF. We need to take these assholes down hard before Inola dies, and we need to find two missing DEA agents, too.”
“How much you need?” he asked. “We’ve just got
a fresh batch from the Marrakesh. I can only get you about ten thousand.”
“How good are the fakes?” asked Wraith.
“Good enough,” said Agent Fisch.
“Don’t have any idea how much this idiot wants, but ten thousand will buy a lot of guns,” said Wraith.
“And, he doesn’t value women,” said Saber.
“That’s going to be his downfall,” said Ivy.
Wraith signed for the fake money, and he handed over a duffel bag.
Ivy took it, and said, “Thank you.” She was shocked when her voice shook. “Inola and Henry thank you. You have a favor from the Nighthawks.”
“Just bring them all back,” said Agent Fisch. “I lost my own mentor two years ago, in a situation like this. Gangbanger decided to print his own money. Even had the plates. Agent Alkin was caught in the crossfire. She left behind two kids.” He looked them each in the eye. “Stay safe,” he said.
“We will,” said Ivy. Then, the three of them rode out into the night.
“Don’t be stupid enough to kick the anthill.”
2
Seekers
“Infiltration, if done deftly, can get you all the information you need.”
Wraith looked at Saber. The place buzzed around them, the blare of the movie the kids were watching came through the wall. They had both been going for a while. Wraith touched Ivy’s wrist and was surprised that the woman let her do it.
“We need to bug out. We’ll talk to our sources, and try to get in. Once we get in, we’ll set up the trade. Or get her out, if that’s possible.”
“It won’t be,” said Ivy. “That bastard is alive precisely because he moves around. He’ll be surrounded by people he lifted off his father, or the ones he grew up running around committing crimes with. He won’t be easy to capture or kill, and by now he knows he’s lost guys.” She looked at Wraith. “And either you’re going to have to get a lot messier, or he’s gotta have a reason to not pass you around like candy. You look like candy. Very dangerous candy.”
Wraith allowed her blue eyes to sharpen to crystalline intensity. “I’m his private killer. I amuse him, and so Talamantes can’t touch me.”
“Very good,” said Ivy. “Now get us some fucking intel we can use to get all our people back.”
“On it,” said Wraith. Saber snorted.
He opened the door for Saber. “What now?” he asked. “We can’t go back to the office. Do you propose we ride around to find them?”
“Let’s go somewhere,” she said. They mounted up, both their bikes matte black and chrome, both helmets the full-face black-mirror type.
“You raced,” she said, watching the way he mounted his Harley.
“Some,” he said.
“You any good?” she asked.
“I’m not dead,” he said.
“Good point.”
She led the way to a waffle house. It smelled of walnuts, sugar, coffee, and grease. They sat down on the corner of the counter and offered coffee. Saber ordered steak, eggs, orange juice, and home fries, holding the toast. She ordered biscuits with honey and butter, bacon… crispy, one scrambled egg with cheese, and a little bowl of fruit.
When they had placed their order, he said, “How are we going to find them?”
“We’re not from here. Our friends are. They’ll find them. These people are smart. They use every asset, and Ivy will think her way into what to do next.”
“We need to be a lot smarter than Talamates. Weapons and money caches, hidden identities, backstops. We’ve got to have allies at every turn, and we’ve got to be absolutely believable every fucking moment.”
“What does he want most?” asked Saber. “Money, because he’s got a woman to torture, maybe guns to sell or use, maybe drugs, to sell. We can only hope he doesn’t use his own product; it makes him even more unpredictable.”
“My people say he’s not a psychopath or a sociopath, and that he has borderline personality disorder or BPD. He doesn’t see people as more than window dressing for his aims, like living chess pieces he can make move around.”
“Life is a chess game for him,” said Saber. “Our shrink-raps say that too.” She took a sip of orange juice. “So, how do you become an important enough chess piece that you get used… a lot?”
The food came. “Pawns are bad,” said Saber. He cut up his steak and poured some steak sauce on a small part of his plate. “We’ve got to be knights or bishops.”
“Ivy says I’m your hired killer. I assume that you can get us guns.”
He smiled. “With itty bitty trackers. We lose them, we can find them again. Even map where they get around, up or down, or sideways in organizations. Can trace entire networks of gun runners that way.”
“So, if we lose a gun or two, no biggie,” she said. “Good to know.”
“We have the Secret Service tracking the money somehow. We shouldn’t lay a finger on it ourselves, don’t know if they’re using invisible dye or serial numbers or our itty-bitty trackers.”
“Granted,” said Wraith, buttering her biscuit, then pouring on honey. She ate some bacon. “We have got to hit him with guns, that’s you, and the money from Ivy to get her girl back. Then run down both the guns, that’s you, and the money, that’s Secret Service. And I get to find drugs and run those down.” She ate a fourth of her biscuit. “Maybe I can be a killer paid in drugs I sell elsewhere. A druggie killer just wouldn’t make sense.”
He ate a piece of steak and chewed. “So, you’re my killer… girlfriend? Or tool?”
Wraith ate a bite of egg then swallowed. “Girlfriend is what this guy may understand better, but tool comes a close second. The problem is, tool means he’ll steal me for his tool, and girlfriend implies that I’m harder to steal.”
“Do we want him to do that? Steal you?”
She ate the rest of her bacon. “That will get us separated and possibly you killed, but it would get me close.”
“I can handle myself,” he said. “Ex-marine.”
“There are no ex-marines,” said Wraith.
“Oo-rah,” he said. “I’m also part of the Iron Knights in Los Angeles.” He looked around. “I like it here. Lots of really good people. Love the surf, can’t stand the nothing people in LA, you know? No soul.” He took a sip of his orange juice. “A layer of tinsel under a genuine layer of tinsel.”
She barked out a laugh. “Exactly,” she said. “Lived there two years. That was a long time ago, though.”
“You in this office now?” he asked.
“Don’t have one,” she said. “I go where they send me.”
He nodded. “I do that a lot too.” He gusted out a sigh.
“Cheers,” she said. They clinked orange juice glasses.
They debated about where he could go next. “No more alphabet streets,” she argued. “He’s been burned there, and there’s another club there, sure to spot them.”
“Agreed,” he said. “Don’t see anything in his file about clubs, prostitutes or pretty women, nothing.”
“A club would make it easy to sidle up,” she said. “No, this asshole has lairs. Plural. Not one Batman lair, but several that can be moved around and discarded.”
“But relatively clean,” said Saber. “No crack dens, falling-down buildings. Abandoned, probably.”
“Tons of those in Vegas,” said Wraith. “Housing crisis that started in 2008 and never completely went away.”
“Like searching for a needle in a bucket of needles,” agreed Saber.
“And what’s with a Hispanic cartel guy recruiting from a white gang and setting up in a predominantly black neighborhood?”
“My guess is that he doesn’t see race, or doesn’t give a shit,” said Saber. “People are just tools, so race is irrelevant, except as how to use the tool.”
She nodded, then thought hard. “How would he find his tools?”
“He’d go looking for a killer,” Saber said. “If he thought he needed one.”
“He might need
one. One of his houses and a kidnap victim just got taken back. Where do you find pet killers?” She thought hard. Saber could see the wheels turning in her head.
“The shooting range,” he said. “He’d be looking for a perfect shot.”
Wraith grinned ferally, her eyes bright with cold, like ice daggers. “That, I can do.”
They finished up. “I’ll need some guns,” she said. “And some practice. I’m from out of town —way out of town —so, let’s think about a British L42 AS50. Great stocks and scopes on those. Lightweight, fifty cal.”
“Pricey, and too much firepower,” he said. “You shooting through walls?”
She tossed her head at him. “Very well. An M24 will do. The SR-25 is too heavy.”
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll get you so much armament you’ll look like Lara Croft.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Tomb Raider?” She shook her head.
He sighed. “Video game. Okay, I take it you’re good with knives?” She snorted. “Okay, guns, knives, sheaths, holders, ties. Am I leaving anything out?”
“Throwing stars?” she said, lifting the side of her mouth in a half-smile.
“No shuriken for you.” He thought about it. “Maybe useful for me. Possibly. All right, I’ll put in the order and pick it up at the drop. Then, we’ll…” A thought hit him.
“What?” she said, handing over cash for the bill to the harried server, leaving a sizable tip.
“There’s a public shooting range. Not a lot of cops there. Lots of shooting, not too much oversight.”
She was already up and moving. “Let’s get the stuff. Now.”
He sent an extremely coded text. The duffle was waiting at the drop. They went to a coffee shop, where he ordered a very complicated, cold-pressed coffee and she ordered a mint-orange tea.
She went into the women’s restroom with the very heavy bag. The ladies’ restroom was super-high-class, with silvery tile, glass tile around the full-size mirror, and large stalls big enough for mothers to haul in children. She checked the heft of the knives, slid off each boot, slipped on the sheath, slid in the knife, and put the boots back on. They were flat, matte-black, deadly, and perfect. She put the rifle together on the very helpful shelf behind the toilet. She checked the sight, took it apart again, then put it back in its case. The Glock 26 Gen 3 9mm slid into an ankle holster on the other side of the knife in her left boot so smoothly. The ultra-thin Springfield XDs .45mm ACP went into the other boot. She could barely feel the weight when she lifted her leg. A Sig Sauer P266 went in its holster in the small of her back. She left the Walther PPQ, (despite its ergonomic hand grip), and the two Desert Eagles in the bag. They were overkill so she put the rifle case back in the bag and walked out.