Hard Run: Action Adventure Pulp Thriller Book #4 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Series)

by Jason Stanley

  “Yeah, both of them are connected with the Mexican Mafia in the prison system through cousins. When I'm down from here, I'll go talk to some of the locals. Who knows, it's a small town, we might set up a meet with the top guys without it being brokered through our L.A. connections.”

  “I'm on it,” Nikky smiled.

  * * *

  Looking as indistinct as a silver colored floppy shrub in her ghillie suit, Michelle carried her disassembled rifle in a camouflage carry bag slung over her shoulder. After over five minutes she was only a quarter way down the ladder on the side of the oil tank. She stepped down one more rung and counted forty‑five seconds, then went down to the next rung. It was slow progress that made her almost invisible against the white tank as she came down.

  A little over an hour later, back at the house, Trevon called Michelle. “Apparently the local guy didn't much like your sharpshooting.”

  “That almost makes us even. I don't like the way he conducts business or his attitude.” Michelle caught herself sounding snappish at Trevon. “He pissed me off, but I shouldn’t take it out on you. How's things on your end?”

  “All good in the hood.”

  She sensed something not quite right in his voice. “Right, now, really, how are things?”

  “Seriously, all good.” Trevon’s voice sounded a bit lighter. “Miss Betty and T‑Dog are perking along covering you guys with your girls. Brandon's been checking the streets every night like it was his business on the line. I'm beginning to think he likes your business better than ours.”

  “Of course he enjoys my business more. He's gay.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Christ, Trevon, you’ve been friends for what, fifteen, twenty years and you still don't know nothing about being gay.” Michelle chuckled and wondered how was it that straight men didn’t have a clue when it came to their gay friends. “All gay men who are any fun at all, would prefer to spend time chatting with a bunch of women who love dressing up in outlandish clothes and wild makeup, over dealing with straight men selling drugs.”

  “Speaking of getting laid, when are you coming back?” Trevon’s voice took on his unique quality that went straight to Michelle’s hot and melted button.

  Michelle pushed visions of Trevon naked in bed away. “As soon as this bit of business is wrapped up. Any word from your friends?”

  “Yeah, call Spider. He's ready to do business.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah. You know they won’t talk outta school, but I got the impression the gents out here were pretty pissed at him blowing off that deal over some ego trip. So, yeah, give him a call, he’s on board.”

  “If you say so.” Michelle’s voice said she wasn’t convinced.

  “I’m not saying anything here. I’m just the messenger and my friends said they were in, and that means Spider is in.”

  “Thanks. I’ll make the call. Also, I'm going to hold you to that promise when I come home.”

  “What promise?” Trevon acted innocent like he didn’t know what she meant.

  “That promise of some long lasting hot sex.”

  “Oh, that promise. You're on.”

  Switching mental gears, Michelle called the number Trevon gave her.

  “Sup” Spider said.

  “This is Michelle. You wanted me to call?”

  “You think that was some clever shit you pull—”

  Michelle broke the connection.

  Less than fifteen minutes later Michelle parked her rented Chevy pickup in a strip mall. She walked over to a group of five Mexican teenagers. A chubby boy tracked her as she approached and nodded to another boy with his arm around a girl. The boy with the girl looked up and made eye contact. He held her gaze without turning away. The razor sharp creased khakis and white tee shirt under a Pendleton shirt buttoned at the collar said he was in a gang. The Old English lettered tattoo on his neck told which one. He was her guy. She held out a one hundred dollar bill. “I need to talk to your jefe.”

  The single girl pushed herself up from the bench she was sitting on. “Look at this bitch, she's crazy.”

  “Shut up Tina.” The boy said. He hadn't broken eye contact with Michelle. “Why?”

  “Business.” Michelle’s tone was casual, relaxed, and serious.

  “You alone?” He broke eye contact looking past Michelle to the car she came in.

  Michelle didn't answer. Instead, she shook the bill. “Yes or no?”

  “Wait here. Ten minutes.” He stood up, looked at Tina, a warning flashed in his expression as he slightly shook his head.

  Tina looked down and remained silent.

  Then he looked back at Michelle. “Ten minutes.”

  Michelle went inside the store for something to drink. The cool temperature inside matched the outside. Two Hispanic women, one heavy, one thin, both with deep dark shades of purple lipstick, heavy eyeliner and blue eye shadow, rang up customers at two registers.

  Standing in line to pay for her bottle of water, Michelle noticed both women fastidiously ignored the door chime each time a customer entered or left.

  Not yet to the register, she stepped out of line when the teenage gang member came in.

  “Be at Manny's Taqueria in fifteen minutes.” He held his hand out.

  She handed him the hundred dollar bill, but held onto it. “Where is Manny's?”

  “Six blocks, on the left.” He jerked his head in the direction showing which way to go.

  She released the bill. “Gracias. Who should I look for?”

  “Flaco. He knows what you look like.” The boy turned and walked out.

  Michelle left her unopened water bottle on the counter and followed him out. He returned to his friends and made a show of ignoring her. The kid had gang leadership written all over him. One day he’d be at the top of the local gang, or at the bottom of an early grave.

  On the way to Manny's, Michelle reflected on about what she was about to set up. If Flaco proved to be a problem, she would go elsewhere.

  Spider was out. He made it clear he was an asshole. Twice. If a relationship started off with one side being a jerk, it would always go downhill from there. It didn't matter if the guy was a banger shot caller or a corporate executive. She had learned if a guy was a power tripping asshole, the sooner she cut her ties, the better.

  She wouldn't cut off her nose to spite her face. But she would rather do the work of checking out all the other gangs and, if necessary, import an outsider before letting Spider screw up the job with his bad attitude.

  Manny's Taqueria turned out to be a fast food counter and tables set in the corner of a Mexican Mercado that was part Mexican grocery store and part meat market. The smells of fresh cut meats mingled with beef and pork cooked in garlic, chilies, and fresh cilantro. Rice and dry beans in burlap bags added an undercurrent to the unmistakable smell of the Mercado.

  She filled a plastic glass with ice and Pepsi and walked to the cashier. “Cuanto?”

  “Nada. He already paid.” The middle aged Mexican woman with bright red dyed hair, large chest, and friendly smile told Michelle.

  “Who?”

  “Me.” A thin man, pushing forty, buzz‑cut hair, walked around the end of the meat counter. He stood an average five feet nine inches tall. Heavy dark blue Tattoos covered all the exposed bare skin on his arms and neck.

  “Flaco?”

  He waved at an empty table with four sturdy orange molded plastic chairs. “Have a seat.”

  She looked him over and didn't see a gun. That didn't mean anything though. With his loose khaki pants, he could effectively hide about any standard size pistol in an ankle holster. More likely, there was a shooter behind one of the rear doors or elsewhere in the store with a clean line of sight to where they sat.

  “Are you jefe? You're the boss?” she asked.

  “Today I am.” He casually leaned back in his chair and draped his arms over the back of the chair next to him.

  Michelle no
dded, understanding she talked to a lower level jefe, a decision maker, if not the top man. That was good enough. “I have a proposition for the man who can bring a crew of seven or eight real shooters. All veteranos, no youngsters. Are you that man?”

  “It depends on for what. Some things need to go through my jefe, my boss.”

  “Then, no offense to you, but I need to talk to him.”

  “He's a lifer at Oklahoma State in McAlester. It takes some time to be cleared for the visitor's list then schedule a visit. Unless you're a lawyer. You don't look like a lawyer to me.” His smirk said he knew he’d pegged her.

  “So you’re jefe on the streets, right?”

  “Yes, for my people. What do you want?” His voice took on a serious tone.

  Michelle thought for a moment. So far he had been straight. She knew one of the Mexican groups was connected to the prison Mexican Mafia. They were not the strongest on the Tulsa streets. Their strength was they were considerably better connected behind the scenes. If they joined with her and took over Sal's operation, they would emerge as the top crime faction in Tulsa.

  “I'm Michelle.” She decided on honesty. “I run hookers in Anglewatts, that's in Los Angeles.”

  “I know where it is. What does any of your business mean to me?”

  “There's an operation here in Tulsa that I disagree with on a philosophical basis. They run slave prostitution.”

  “Sal.” The jefe said Sal’s name like it was common knowledge.

  “Yes, Sal. He also is the largest oxy and heroin dealer in Tulsa. He's part of an outfit in Houston. I am taking out both organizations. The thing is, I'm only interested in two things. I want the women out safe, and I want to kill the men who are holding them slaves. When we're done, me and my crew will walk away. Whoever works with me on this will have an open territory with no one of significance to oppose them. After that, it's on them to keep it.”

  “Why me?”

  “Well, I did go to my people first.” Michelle rubbed her finger across the back of her hand to show she meant African American.

  His eyes followed her gesture, and he nodded.

  Michelle continued, “Unfortunately, there was an issue of respect. I won't work without respect. You’ve shown respect in talking to me and telling the truth about who is jefe even though I am a woman. That is smart. I am willing to work with you.”

  “Okay, Michelle from Anglewatts, I'm interested. Tell me more.”

  .

  Twenty-Seven: Go Out - Roll In

  SUNDAY 8:21 A.M. Tulsa.

  The stakeout apartment across from Sal's headquarters and current residence for five prostitutes.

  Careful not to let anyone down on the street hear, Baby‑Sister whisper-screamed into her hand. “No! No! Fuck! You fucking asshole. Christ that guy would fuck up a wet dream.” She called G‑Baby. “G, you're not going to believe this. Jack‑Move is loading all the women into his car. They're leaving.”

  Silence.

  “G, you there?” Baby‑Sister asked.

  “We still go ahead,” G‑Baby said. “His taking the women out is a problem. More of a big inconvenience, but not a stopper. We're tied to the timing with Michelle. We move on schedule.”

  “Do I tell the others?” Baby-Sister’s voice held the shrill edge of panic.

  “Yes, call everyone, let them know nothing changes. But Baby, can you do something first?”

  “What?”

  “Take a breath, calm down. I know this looks like it will screw up our plans. But it’s just a hiccup. Okay?”

  “Okay. Right, a hiccup. One hell of a hiccup if you ask me.” Baby‑Sister’s voice calmed. “What about Jelena and her girls?”

  “What did they look like? Did they have on traveling clothes like sweats? What about suitcases?”

  “They had on working clothes,” Baby‑Sister said. “They all wore nice dresses, glitter, sexy shoes. Maybe like they were going to a party.”

  “A party at nine in the morning? More like a corporate training event or something like that. Actually, them being gone might be a good thing. Hunting Jack-Move down again will be a pain in the ass, but at least they won't be around when bullets are flying.”

  “What about Michelle? Do you want me to tell her?”

  “No,” G‑Baby answered. “I'll take care of Michelle.”

  G‑Baby turned to Flaco. “That was our spotter on the front door. The women all piled into a car headed to a gig. They should be gone when your guys show up.”

  “Nothing changes man, we still do our shit and whatever happens to the hookers is up to you guys,” Flaco said.

  “That's right. Nothing changes. The only difference is, it's a safe bet the guys who normally are upstairs with the women will be down in the restaurant. But, my team still needs to go upstairs. Just because the women are gone, doesn't mean we don't need to clear the upstairs. We've drilled the plan to where everybody knows their part. Plus, we don't want any of Sal's cousins looking for revenge next week.”

  “I agree, Flaco said. “Now, we're gonna do our part. Are you sure about your girl taking out the other end in Houston? Our people haven't heard anything about anything. That's kinda strange. Something this big usually makes some noise. Even if nobody knows what's happening, they see the signs when something is going down. There are extra gun buys on the street; some kind of action is seen. So far there's nothing.”

  G-Baby stared at Flaco with a flat expression. “Are you telling me you want out because you don't know our details in another state that you have nothing to do with?”

  “No. I ain't saying that,” Flaco backtracked. “I'm saying we don't want this battle to turn into a long‑term war. She needs to hold up her end, and I got nothing to make me comfortable about it.”

  “Okay,” G‑Baby took a breath and thought a moment. “You haven't heard anything and won't ever hear anything about it later. Watch the news you'll see the police run around after it's all over. The only thing you'll ever know for sure is the Vietnamese who run Little Saigon will strengthen their recent hold on drugs in Houston and the surrounding areas.”

  “The Vietnamese? I've heard of them.” Flaco’s brows shot up in surprise. “They don't do shit with nobody but their own people. Your boss woman must have some serious connections to put that together.”

  “You would be amazed at all she's able to do. Now, let's go over our moves one more time before I leave.”

  “Hey, esse.” Flaco turned to one of his men. “Call the vatos in, we're gonna go over this and make sure everyone knows their part.”

  In a few minutes, twelve men wandered in. Michelle asked for eight men, but they provided thirteen. The youngest, a youth in his late teens, brought in a bag of cold sodas and put them on a low table by the rear door. G‑Baby noticed while the men appeared casual and without any apparent order, there was an underlying discipline. Nobody appeared hungover, and no one drank beers. Everyone had on clean clothes. As a barber, he noticed everyone had fresh haircuts and had shaved that day.

  This group might look like a gaggle of geese to Mrs. America Housewife. Big mistake. These guys were all right on point and serious about the business of the day. Michelle had done the right thing when she dropped that arrogant prick Spider and his undisciplined crew.

  Over the next twenty minutes, G‑Baby and Flaco did a complete review. They went over all the key points: Where G‑Baby would have spotters and snipers. What each man's job in Flaco's team was. Who were their backup in case of trouble or if someone was taken out of commission. Who had extra keys to cars, and a myriad of small details. All of it had been gone over several times with each team leader running the men through the steps. Everyone spoke, everyone knew everyone's job, and who to expect where.

  When it came to checking their ballistic vests, nobody objected. Gordo received a little good‑natured teasing about making sure his vest was big enough to go all the way around. Equally, everybody carefully tied their bright yellow bandannas around their neck
and had a partner check that it was tied tight. Nobody showed false bravado, they were all as much soldiers as in any platoon in the army. They were veterans and knew this was a battle where men would die.

  G‑Baby left Flaco's knowing he had a professional team backing him up. Now it was time to check on his people and move into position.

  * * *

  Sunday 9:58 A.M. Houston.

  Mom's Wholesale Ice Cream building. New headquarters for Galletti. Current residence for thirty-two prostitutes.

  The bright green and red bus with “Sun Tours” and large Chinese writing along the side, parked across the street from Sal's. A woman in a black and white professional business suit with a slim line skirt and sensible shoes was the first off. She carried a megaphone and spoke in a sing song voice. She was followed by a crowd of twenty‑four Asian men and women. They dressed in a mixture of shorts, loud Hawaiian shirts, mismatched prints, and sneakers with black socks. All of them wore fanny packs or had brightly colored backpacks decorated with children's cartoon figures slung over a shoulder. The crowd milled around the front of the bus for a minute then wandered around. Most took pictures of the used furniture store display.

  Basil, the man watching the monitors in the security room upstairs in Mom’s Wholesale Ice Cream turned, and smiled at his friend. “Hey, Nick, get a load of this.” He tapped one of the cctv monitors.

  Nick looked over the top of his i‑pad. “What ya got?”

  “Look at these stupid motherfuckers. What's that, Chinese or Japanese writing on the bus?” Basil laughed out loud. “They think this is a tourist stop. Christ, there's even a woman with a megaphone telling them what to take pictures of. They're all taking pictures of Bill's Home Furnishings across the street. Is this the first time they've seen a used furniture store?”

  “That's Chinese writing,” Nick said. “I guess they are Chinese. Can you turn up the sound out on the street so we can hear them?”

  “Sure, here, let me pull down the sound . . . Isolate the front mics . . . There, that's it. Listen to that stuff. How in the world can anyone understand that gibberish?”

  The woman with the megaphone started talking again, and the group turned around taking pictures of the street and Mom's Wholesale Ice Cream. Several of the men ambled across the street.