The maroon sedan stayed with me.
“I’m about to hit F Street,” I informed Villaverde, still playing out the notion of somehow faking them out and doubling back to ambush them while they waited for me to resurface. It was taking root nicely. I quickly explained my idea to him and asked him to think of somewhere away from the crowds where I could face off with them without worrying about collateral damage.
I was now on F, a wide, one-way street that cut across the downtown area east to west, and I could almost hear Villaverde’s mind whirring away as he processed my request.
“There’s the Coast Guard facility on Harbor Drive,” he finally said. “I can call ahead and make sure the guard at the gate lets you through and get some of the guys ready to back you up.”
“No. No Coast Guard or Navy, nothing like that. It might spook them.” I was worried my stalkers might not want to lie in wait for me outside a military base, not in these terror-alert-heightened times, and I really didn’t want to lose them. “Come on, David,” I pressed him. “I’m running out of road.”
“Hang on.” He went silent for another moment, then said, “Okay, how about the Tenth Avenue Terminal area, down at the harbor? There’s container yards and warehouses and storage tanks, that kind of thing. What do you think?”
It seemed like a decent option. “Does it make sense that I would have left the freeway where I did if I was originally going there?”
Villaverde thought about it for a second, then said, “I wouldn’t have necessarily come off the fifteen, but yeah, why not? You’re not way off base. Besides, you’re a visitor here, you’re not expected to know the ideal route to take.”
I didn’t like hearing that. Plus, I wasn’t sure what they were thinking, or expecting. But the downtown area didn’t look like it was going to offer me what I was looking for, and the harbor sounded better.
Also, Villaverde’s suggestion of the gate at the Coast Guard facility gave me an idea.
“Is there a bonded warehouse facility there with a security gate?”
“Yep, I know where it is.”
I glanced at the street signs on the next corner. “Okay, I’m just crossing Thirteenth. I need you to guide me to the terminal. And see if you can call the gate and let them know I’m heading their way.”
Villaverde got to it and told me to take the next left. I tensed up with expectation and turned the wheel while eyeing my rearview mirror.
Sure enough, the maroon sedan turned in behind me.
18
As he sat on a tattered and cracked leather couch across a stained coffee table from Eli Walker, El Brujo felt the rumbling of an oncoming storm echoing through his veins.
He tried to stay positive as his eyes wandered around the spartan interior of the gang’s clubhouse and the five other bike brothers who were sitting around the room while his ears and his mind remained locked on the phone conversation their leader, the club’s president, was having. The man had, Navarro reminded himself, come through for him before. Several times, in fact. They’d done good business together years earlier—back in the days when Walker and the rest of the narco world knew him as Raoul Navarro, back when he was scheming and scything his way up the kingpin ladder of power and notoriety—and they’d done business of a different kind, also without a hitch, in the last few months. There was no reason to expect Walker to fail—again—this time, but somehow, Navarro couldn’t help but feel the man was going to let him down.
The clubhouse was next door to the club’s business front, the shop where Walker and his boys built, sold, and serviced motorcycles of all kinds. Navarro knew these guys had a nice little business going, what with the garage out front gleaming with rich lacquer and expensive chrome. He knew how passionate bikers felt about their rides, especially out here in California, and he knew how much some people were prepared to pay for the outrageous custom bikes people like Walker created for them. Only last week, he’d read about a Hollywood screenwriter whose stolen bike had just been recovered in the Philippines, of all places. It was worth close to a hundred thousand dollars. Navarro knew that a lot of what he saw out front were also worth big bucks, and given that the bikes’ main cost component was labor and that the markups on what went into them were huge, it was an ideal setup through which Walker and his gang could launder the money the gang made from trafficking and selling drugs and guns and the rest of their illegal enterprises.
The clubhouse itself was not to Navarro’s liking. It reeked of cheapness, what with all the mismatched furniture and tattered walls, to say nothing of the overflowing ashtrays and the stink of stale beer. It was the first time he’d actually been there—Navarro had steered clear of the United States until his rebirth—and he found it odd that for people who were clearly generating a serious amount of cash, Walker and his gang were living like slobs. Navarro understood that it was part of who these guys were, part of their ethos, of the only life they knew, but it was the opposite of what he was used to, the banditos back home who sought to surround themselves with luxury and project wealth and status as soon as they could afford it—wealth that they inevitably lost, wealth that possibly contributed to their downfall. Maybe these guys had it right, living less ostentatiously. Maybe it kept them off the ATF’s radar. Either way, it didn’t matter, he thought. Not if they can deliver what he needed from them.
He’d know soon enough.
He glanced at Walker and saw the big man grunt into his phone, and their eyes met. Walker’s expression was still locked somewhere between stone-faced and grave as he fingered his furry goatee with his meaty, calloused fingers and gave Navarro a slight nod of reassurance. Navarro returned the nod, cool and supportive, but in truth, he’d already lost a big chunk of whatever respect he’d ever had for the biker’s abilities from the moment Walker hadn’t recognized him when he’d shown up there with his two aides in tow. Navarro was fully aware that this was an unfair judgment on the big man. The plastic surgeon had done such a great job on Navarro’s face that the narco’s own mother, had she ever stuck around to see her son after giving birth to him, wouldn’t have recognized him. No one did, which was the whole point of going through the long and painful process in the first place. Still, in some perverse way, he’d expected more from Walker. He’d wanted him to recognize him. That would have been a strong testimony to the sharpness of the man’s mind. But Walker, like the handful of people from Navarro’s past that he’d shown himself to, hadn’t caught on to the deception, and given that his stock had been plummeting ever since that first failure at the woman’s house, it didn’t bode well for the biker.
Navarro hoped the big man wouldn’t sink any further.
“All right, good work,” he heard Walker say. “Stay on his ass and keep me posted.”
Walker hung up and looked across at him.
Navarro met his gaze with a raised eyebrow, inviting an update.
“My guys are on your fed’s tail,” he informed him. “He’s driving into the city.”
Navarro nodded his approval, slow and thoughtful, then just said, “Muy bien.”
19
Villaverde’s directions were flawless, and it wasn’t long before I reached the huge marine terminal complex and spotted the gate to the bonded warehouse.
“I’m here,” I told him, still on my BlackBerry’s speakerphone.
“Okay, you’re all set.”
There were few cars around and zero pedestrians, which was what I was hoping for. I put my turn signal on early intentionally in order to see how the goons in the maroon sedan would react. They receded in my mirror as they slowed right down to give me some space to let a container truck pass before I could turn in to the storage facility’s entrance, which was across the street from us. As I did, I watched them pull up to the far curb and stop.
It looked like they were going to wait for me. Which meant they needed me to lead them to something. It had to be Michelle. They were definitely still after her.
As I waited for the truck to
pass, I scanned the facility’s outer perimeter. There was an eight-foot-high chain-link fence around its frontage that wouldn’t be too hard to climb over. I pulled up to the gatehouse and rolled my window down as the security guard lumbered out to meet me. I knew his name was Terry since, moments earlier, I’d listened in to Villaverde on the phone with him. Terry was in his fifties and wasn’t the fittest or the most nimble guy I’d ever seen—the term mammoth did spring to mind—and it was just as well I hadn’t been counting on his being my wingman during my planned sneak and grab.
“Terry, right?” I showed him my creds, both as a matter of procedure and for the benefit of the watchful eyes up the street. I saw his expression go a bit jittery and quickly added, “Keep your eyes on me and act natural, okay? Just make like you’re asking me what this is all about before you let me in.”
“Okay.” His eyes were throbbing with tension and he was visibly having a tough time resisting taking a peek over the roof of the LaCrosse to check out the bad guys.
“Stay with me, Terry,” I reminded him, slow and calm. “Just keep your focus on me and answer my questions without looking their way.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Okay, um—so, what do you want to know?” An Oscar was definitely not in Terry’s future.
I gave the place a quick sweep and settled on a warehouse to my right. I indicated it with a discreet nod. “I need to leave my car behind that building over there so it’ll be out of sight while I go over the fence and sneak up on the guys who were following me. Okay?”
He took a second to calm his nerves, then said, “Sure thing.”
I figured this was enough of a show for my stalkers. “Good.” I flicked a glance at the holstered automatic almost buried under his paunch. “I’m assuming you know how to use that.”
He grinned, and his hand dropped down to give its grip a small pat. “You bet your ass.”
The bet your ass was a bit too gung-ho for my liking, but better that than having him go all wobbly-kneed on me if things went sour. “Well, backup’s on its way, so don’t you go and play hero or anything. Just stay sharp, all right?”
His jowls sagged with disappointment at that, and he gave me a glum, “I hear you.”
“And don’t look at them when you let me in.”
Terry nodded again and stepped back to roll the barrier aside for me. I gave him a small nod back as I drove in.
“I’m in,” I told Villaverde.
I pulled in behind the warehouse and continued all the way down to its far end, where I parked alongside its wall.
Villaverde’s voice came back. “I’ve got a Harbor Police black-and-white about three minutes out and another on the way.”
I picked up the phone and killed the speaker function as I got out of the car. “Keep them back and tell them not to approach until I say so,” I insisted firmly. “Make sure they understand that, David. I don’t want my guys to bolt and I don’t want this to turn into the OK Corral either. These guys like to shoot stuff up.”
“Copy that. And keep the line open.”
“Will do.”
I had to move fast.
I took off my jacket and chucked it into the car, then pulled out my gun, chambered a round, and flicked the safety off before slipping it back into its holster. Then I set off.
I trotted down the back of the warehouse until I reached its corner, making sure I couldn’t be seen from the street. There was some tall grass growing at the base of the wire fence that provided a small measure of cover. I’d seen my guys pull up on the other side of the street, but this wasn’t the kind of street people parked on and I didn’t think they’d still be there.
I peered out and surveyed the area.
I couldn’t see them at first—then I spotted them. They were parked in the small lot of a marine supplies store, almost directly across from me. The spots were slightly angled, herringbone-style, and the sedan was nose-forward facing toward Terry’s gatehouse—which meant I needed to move farther down the fence before climbing over it if I didn’t want to be scaling it almost in direct view of my goons.
There was a second warehouse sitting behind the one I was hugging. I nipped back along the wall and away from the street, made sure the goons weren’t looking my way, then sprinted across the gap between the two buildings, staying low. I kept running all the way down until I reached the far corner of the second building, took a cautionary peek behind it, then went around and kept going until I was crouched close to the fence again. I figured there were now a couple of hundred feet between me and them. It was enough.
As another truck rolled by outside, I crept up to the fence and gave it a little tug to test its rigidity. It was solid, and the diamond shapes formed by the crossed wires were just wide enough to accommodate the tips of my shoes. I stayed low and waited for another truck to trundle by, then I got something even better—a big eighteen-wheeler coming out of the bonded warehouse facility itself. I reckoned it would snare my goons’ attention, and I tensed up, ready to move—and as the truck rumbled past, I took three big strides and leapt onto the gate. I was up it in four quick moves and launched myself over it, landing hard on the sidewalk in a low crouch before scurrying for cover behind the slow-moving truck and rushing across the street in its dusty wake.
I dove behind a parked car about a dozen cars down from the maroon sedan and paused there to catch my breath, then I peeked out. I could see the guy in the passenger seat, in profile. He was looking dead ahead, toward the gate. I pulled out my gun and darted out, hugging the cars and ducking from one to another in quick, stealthy bursts. I tried to minimize the risk of being spotted by timing my moves to coincide with trucks rolling past, knowing the eyes in the maroon sedan would be distracted by them when they weren’t otherwise fixated on the gate, waiting for me to reappear.
I paused about five cars away, where I got a decent view of the guy riding shotgun. He had a shaved head with what appeared to be a flame-like tattoo pattern running along its side, above his ear, and was wearing metal-framed shades. He was just sitting there, smoking in silence with his elbow on the windowsill and his gaze locked on the warehouse’s entrance. Although I hadn’t seen the tattoo under the cap he wore at the hotel, I recognized him now—he was one of the three hard-asses who’d come up in the elevator, the guy I’d slammed into in the lobby.
I couldn’t really see the other guy’s face.
My entire body tightened up in anticipation and I nipped out again. With my gun hand leading the way, I tucked in behind the car that was parked closest to theirs. There was an empty spot between them. I crouched low, steeled myself with a couple of deep inhales, and, with another truck passing, I scurried fast and silent around the back of the car and sprang up alongside the sedan’s passenger side with my gun barrel about four feet away from Flamehead’s cheek.
“Hands on the roof where I can see ’em. Both of you, right now.”
They both flinched and spun around to face me, stone-faced behind their shades.
“Do it.”
To press my point, I flicked my gun to the left and aimed it just inches from Flamehead’s elaborate skull and let off a quick round into the rear window as a warning, blowing up the tempered glass and showering them with its granules.
I swung the gun right back into Flamehead’s face.
“Okay, okay,” he grumbled as both his hands shot up and reached for the top of the window frame.
I saw a stir deeper in the car as the driver twisted around, his face locked with angry resolve as his right hand dived for something—the grip of a gun sticking out by his waist. I didn’t have time to shout out another warning and just took my shot.
The guy let out a loud yelp and screamed out “Fuuuck!” as his left hand flew up to the bloodied hole in his shoulder that my round had punched.
“You fucking nuts, man?” Flamehead moaned, his eyes flicking from his groaning friend to me and back.
“I’m not screwing around,” I yelled back. “Now give m
e those hands and get out of the fucking car.”
I watched intently as the passenger door swung open and Flamehead climbed out of the car, slowly, with his arms up. He was wearing a black Windbreaker over a dark T-shirt, baggy jeans, and a bulky pair of work boots. I couldn’t tell if he was carrying or not.
“You got a weapon?” I asked, bending down a bit so I could keep an eye on the guy behind the wheel.
“Yeah,” Flamehead grunted. “Belt holster.”
“Two fingers. Easy. On the ground.”
He nodded grudgingly, then pulled an automatic out and set it down by his feet.
“Now kick it under the car. Gently.”
He did so.
“Okay. I want both hands on the roof and your legs spread,” I ordered him, then turned my attention to the driver. “You, out.”
I took a few steps back and edged around the front of the car so I could keep an eye on the driver. I held my Browning in my right hand while my left hand fished out my phone.
“I’ve got them,” I told Villaverde. “Send in the troops.”
The driver was cursing and groaning his way out of the car. He was shorter and stockier than Flamehead and sported a soul patch—a smidgen of beard beneath his lower lip—and long, straight hair that he wore tied back. He rounded the door to face me and looked mad as hell as he scowled at me before spitting at the ground.
I held his glare and told him, “Easy, tiger. I think one hole’s enough for today, what do you say?” I nodded at the gun on his belt. “Two fingers. You know the drill.”
He spat again, then did it.
“Kick it under the car,” I told him. “And I don’t mean all the way to the human torch there.”
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