Rip Crew

by Sebastian Rotella

  “Jesus Christ.” Pescatore wiped away tears.

  Three suspects had been killed along with Méndez’s driver and bodyguard, Abelardo Tapia. It took Pescatore a moment to remember that was Porthos’s real name. Two suspects were in custody, one of them wounded. The radio report didn’t name the slain and captured gunmen, but he knew it would soon become public that Vincent Robles had surfaced, dead in San Diego rather than on the lam in Mexico.

  That news had the power to send dominoes tumbling. He needed to exploit it.

  Chapter 18

  Pescatore hunched behind the wheel. His legs and arms ached from physical tension. Adrenaline, grief and anger rattled around inside him.

  He felt like a human missile soaring solo across the map—and off the turf governed by rules, laws and common sense. He was taking an enormous risk. The consequences were ominous for his job and for his relationships with Isabel and Facundo. Not to mention there was a strong chance he would get himself killed. But he couldn’t figure out any other way to play it.

  The trip north took another two hours. He crossed hills and valleys, coastal vistas and suburban sprawl. Orange County, Los Angeles, the San Fernando Valley, Santa Clarita. The Impala hummed at speeds close to ninety. He eased off the gas now and then, worried about police pulling him over.

  After he made the steep uphill slog on the Antelope Valley Freeway, mountains gave way to desert. Billboards welcomed him to Palmdale and touted real estate developments with rustic names. The blue sky and distant ridges recalled a cavalry Western—John Wayne in a mustache, blue uniform and yellow bandanna around his neck. The landscape unfolded in a lunar monotone of sand, rock and brush, an expanse of shopping centers and housing tracts.

  The Antelope Valley. The high desert plateau. The final frontier of Los Angeles County.

  Pescatore had once met an LA County sheriff’s deputy who worked up here. The locals called the rest of the county “down below.”

  Master Sergeant Security Consulting occupied a narrow storefront in a strip mall on an avenue lined with malls and fast-food places. Pescatore parked in front of a doughnut shop two doors down. The neon sign in the window of Noonan’s company was on. A sleek Ducati motorcycle was parked in front.

  Pescatore called the number for the company. A deep male voice answered.

  “Master Sergeant Security.”

  “Jimmy.”

  “Yeah. Who—”

  Pescatore hung up. Sitting behind the wheel, he finished a water bottle and a Milky Way. The latest news report on the radio said Méndez was out of surgery, in critical but stable condition. Speaking to a reporter by phone, a spokeswoman for the Blake Group condemned the attack on Méndez. Although the Blakes categorically denied the allegations in his articles, they wished him a full recovery.

  Keeping an eye on the storefront, Pescatore did more research on his phone: the location of Noonan’s home, background on the company. He reviewed accumulated voice mails and texts. Facundo had left a voice mail asking where he was and saying that the FBI and the police wanted to talk to Pescatore. The message was in English, meaning that Facundo had called in front of the investigators. In another voice mail, FBI Supervisory Agent Frank Deming urged Pescatore to return his call. Deming spoke in a relaxed drawl. He said Pescatore’s failure to make contact might impede the investigation. And no one wanted that.

  Pescatore considered calling him, gaming out the conversation in his head. He decided against it.

  Another message on his phone was from Isabel, who was en route to the airport to catch a flight to San Diego. She had heard about Méndez and was horrified. She wanted to talk to Pescatore right away.

  He didn’t call back. Any communication between them at this point would pull her into what he was doing now. If he implicated her, it would be the final nail in the coffin of her career.

  Twenty minutes later, the radio reported that police had identified Vincent Robles, a wanted fugitive, as one of the attackers killed in the gunfight in San Diego. Police believed his motive was revenge. Méndez had named Robles in an article as the chief suspect in the rip-crew murders.

  Pescatore checked the time: two p.m. He was betting the news would generate movement among the suspects. If not, he’d have to initiate contact with Noonan and take his chances. But sure enough, twenty-five minutes later the lights went out in Master Sergeant Security Consulting. Jimmy Noonan emerged, wearing a short leather coat and carrying a black helmet, and locked the front door. He resembled his photos on the Internet: a neck-length reddish-gray mane, balding in front. He had a slope-shouldered, thick-limbed walk with a slight limp. As Noonan mounted the Ducati and pulled on the helmet, Pescatore caught a glimpse of a pudgy face and a toothpick protruding from a goatee. Noonan seemed agitated. No doubt he had heard about Robles by now.

  Pescatore trailed the rider down the avenue. Noonan followed a route that Pescatore had anticipated, heading east toward home. He owned a ranch-style property near a hamlet called Littlerock.

  In the open land outside Palmdale, Noonan unleashed the Ducati. Pescatore remembered the sheriff’s deputy telling him about desert driving, how the car crashes up here looked like plane crashes. He sped up to keep his prey in sight. Rows of Joshua trees whizzed by. Isolated homes with landscaped grounds and horse corrals alternated with trailer parks. He passed a junk-filled compound formed by a shack, a yellow school bus, and a water tower tipped on its side. The sight made him think of biker gangs, survivalists, methamphetamine labs.

  Desert-rat territory, he thought. This guy is gonna have guns and dogs. Alarms and cameras too, being a security expert.

  The Ducati turned onto a long lonely road alongside a cyclone fence. Noonan slowed; Pescatore accelerated. Noonan must have activated a remote control, because a gate slid open between stone pillars topped by twin statues of bison. When the motorcycle turned up the driveway and went through the entrance, Pescatore overtook it.

  The helmet swiveled toward him. A gloved hand darted under the coat, and a gun appeared. Pescatore snarled and spun the wheel.

  Bike and rider tumbled, raising a spray of dirt. Pescatore screeched to a stop and leaped out of the car. He jabbed the Bersa into the prone man’s spine just below the helmet.

  “Don’t fucking move or you’re dead!”

  Noonan grunted unintelligibly. Pescatore handcuffed him, closed the gate behind them with the remote control, and retrieved the fallen pistol. He confiscated Noonan’s wallet, a cell phone, keys. Telling himself he wasn’t going to fall for the same trick twice, he checked the man’s boots for concealed knives. When he was done, he yanked off his captive’s helmet and shoved him face-first into the backseat of the Impala. Pescatore slid behind the wheel. Noonan stirred and groaned behind him.

  “Sir,” he mumbled. “You don’t have to do this. I won’t rat anybody out.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I’m totally reliable, bro. The Major knows that. I won’t—”

  “You wanna live a few extra seconds, shut the fuck up.”

  Pescatore nodded with feral satisfaction. Noonan had come to the same conclusion that Pescatore had reached while standing over the corpse in San Diego. The death of Robles had changed the calculations. His solo kamikaze strike had transformed Noonan into the weak link in a chain that led directly to Krystak. So Noonan was convinced that Pescatore was someone sent to whack him.

  The driveway was a long, semi-paved, internal road to a rambling one-story house with a barn and garage. A white horse stood in a fenced enclosure. A Jeep Wrangler and a Honda sedan were parked in front of the garage. Unseen dogs barked. No neighboring houses were visible. A bona fide high-desert hideout.

  Pescatore stopped the car. Noonan had flopped onto his back in an uncomfortable position atop his cuffed arms. His barrel chest rose and fell. His hair was disheveled.

  Leaning over the seat, Pescatore touched his gun to the bridge of the nose where the bushy, rust-colored eyebrows almost met.

  “You gonna get sli
ck with me?”

  “Negative.”

  “You gonna answer my questions truthfully?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Anybody home?”

  “Negative.”

  “Are those noisy-ass dogs running loose?”

  “That’s negative. They’re in a pen by the barn. Sir, is Major Krystak coming? He said we’d talk in person. I can’t believe he’d do me like this. Let me talk to the Major. Man to man, eye to eye.”

  “Shut up. Give me the code to your phone.”

  “All I want is—”

  “Gimme the code!”

  Noonan recited numbers. His voice had a cigarettes-and-whiskey warble. His eyes stared at the gun barrel with unblinking acceptance. They had seen death up close before.

  Not quite as tough as Robles, Pescatore thought. But he’ll do. He knows when he’s beat. He’s focused on surviving.

  His mind raced. Things were moving fast, making him dizzy. Noonan’s phone had logged incoming calls marked Major at noon and at 1:47. Krystak had probably phoned after learning about the ambush and again after hearing about Robles—either from the news or from a federal source.

  Pescatore hurried his prisoner into the house. He put him facedown next to a wall of screens showing security-camera views of the interior of the house, the ranch and the road.

  “Sir?” Noonan raised his head, still staring down at the floorboards. “What happens now?”

  Pescatore let the question hang. Sliding into a masquerade that Noonan had inspired, he pretended to make a phone call.

  “Major? Yeah…All set here…Roger. Yes, sir, Major. See you soon.”

  Pescatore acted as if he had hung up. He bided his time. When he saw Noonan turn his head toward him, he said: “Now we wait.”

  “Roger that.” Noonan didn’t speak for a while. Then he added, “Thanks, bro.”

  Pescatore did his best to come off like a dutiful underling. He said, “The Major’s a man of his word.”

  “Sure is.”

  “What did he tell you, exactly?”

  “We have to talk about the new developments. In person. ASAP. He said he’d be here by three o’clock…Is he still coming?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were surveilling me.” Noonan sounded dismayed. “I thought he trusted me better than that.”

  “Things are getting complicated. Maybe he thought you’d pull some shit.”

  “Negative. Not me.” Noonan craned his head toward Pescatore, who stood out of sight behind him. “Were you with him in Afghanistan? Kandahar, or—”

  “Enough yammering. Eyes front.”

  Krystak hadn’t wasted time, Pescatore thought. He knew he might end up under surveillance or in custody after the Méndez shooting, even if they couldn’t pin it on him. Krystak would be worried that the investigation in San Diego could lead to Noonan. Perhaps it was true that he just wanted to talk to Noonan. But Pescatore was convinced Krystak would want to eliminate a potential witness and dispose of evidence while he could.

  Pescatore pulled Noonan to his feet. He forced him down a staircase into a semi-finished basement, where he handcuffed him to a pole. He found an old shirt and tore it into strips that he used to gag and blindfold the prisoner. Noonan cringed, as if fearing his time had come.

  “You pull any shit,” Pescatore said, “and I’ll put one in your head, Major or no Major.”

  He went upstairs, locking the basement door behind him, and did a quick search of the house. The furniture favored Southwest colors and motifs, expensive but sparse, with a feel of postdivorce depletion. The military memorabilia included a photo of Robles and Noonan looking young and hard in fatigues in front of palm trees and sand dunes.

  Pescatore unlocked a gun room. It was well stocked. Just about everything short of a howitzer. He helped himself to an AK-47 assault rifle. Something else caught his eye: a riot shotgun modified for less-than-lethal beanbag ammunition. He grabbed that too, and a backpack. He scooped up ammunition and several pairs of handcuffs, put them in the backpack, and toted his arsenal to the living room.

  The security monitors showed no activity outside, not even a passing car. With a jolt of apprehension, Pescatore spotted Noonan’s motorcycle. It was still lying near the front gate. The sight would put Krystak on guard.

  “Shit.”

  Pescatore went outside carrying the assault rifle. He ran the length of the internal road, a good quarter mile. He inhaled the crisp cool air, enjoying the physical effort, powering through the twinges of discomfort in his ankle. Alert for approaching vehicles, he got the Ducati started, zoomed back, and parked it by Noonan’s cars. Then he drove his Impala behind the house and out of sight.

  Back inside, he checked the video monitors; nothing new. He loaded and readied the beanbag shotgun, put his Bersa in his shoulder holster and Noonan’s gun in his belt. In the front room, he assessed the entrance and chose a window looking onto the porch from the right of the door. He opened the window halfway.

  At 3:12 p.m., a buzzer sounded in the console by the security screens. The vehicle at the gate was a black SUV, probably an Escalade. Pescatore knew Krystak was big and bald; the moonlike head was shiny and oblong behind sunglasses in the grainy image on the screen. Krystak gave the camera a thumbs-up from the driver’s seat. Surprised and elated, Pescatore saw no other passengers.

  He didn’t bring help, he thought. Maybe he doesn’t plan on whacking Noonan right this minute. More likely scenario: He does plan on whacking him, but he had to move fast, and he doesn’t want more witnesses to worry about. These fuckers are running scared, man. Just like you.

  He pushed the button. The gate slid open. He watched the screen until the gate shut.

  Sweat seeped out of his curly hair. Crouching at the window, he wiped his forehead and upper lip with his sleeve. The barrel of the beanbag shotgun was propped on the sill and pointed at the porch. The assault rifle leaned against the wall next to him.

  The dogs barked. The Escalade approached. Tires crunched over rocks and sand. The motor died. A door slammed. Krystak appeared. Pescatore took aim, tracking him in three-quarters profile. Krystak’s boots thumped as he climbed the steps to the porch. He wore a checkered lumberjack shirt beneath a gray down vest that increased his girth. His catcher’s-mitt hands clenched and unclenched. He was less than fifteen feet away.

  “Hey!” Pescatore bellowed. “I’m pointing a shotgun at you. Raise your hands and hold real still.”

  Krystak froze.

  Just fucking follow orders, Pescatore implored silently.

  Krystak’s hand whipped aside his vest, reaching for a holster on his hip. Pescatore wasn’t taking any chances with this giant pumpkin-head war fighter. He emptied both barrels. Dust and sound and fabric erupted off the down vest. The big man flew backward in an epic fall, made a thunderous impact on the wood. He didn’t move.

  I killed him, Pescatore thought. That ammo’s supposed to be nonlethal, goddamn it.

  Krystak was only stunned. By the time he regained consciousness, Pescatore had cuffed his wrists, and his ankles for good measure. He added Krystak’s sidearm, a SIG Sauer, to his gun collection.

  The Major grunted when Pescatore dragged him into the house. It was like towing a beached whale. Pescatore’s thighs and biceps strained against the weight. In the living room, he used the remnants of the old shirt to gag and blindfold Krystak.

  Leaving his new prisoner on the floor, Pescatore went out to the Escalade. The rear storage space contained rope, lime, gloves, duct tape, a shovel, a pickax, chloroform, galoshes, and a folded tarpaulin. Only a Grim Reaper’s hood and scythe were missing. The goal of Krystak’s expedition seemed pretty clear: kill Noonan, then take advantage of the area’s plentiful supply of clandestine gravesites.

  Back in the house, Pescatore sank into an armchair. The cushions were soft. Sunbeams slanted through a skylight. Dogs and birds made noise outside. Gradually, his pulse and respiration returned to normal.

  Contemplating
his prisoner, he thought about revenge and justice and luck and fate.

  Chapter 19

  Before going downstairs, he called Isabel.

  Although he was still afraid of creating problems for her, the fact of the matter was that she had already called him. There was no hiding that. Moreover, the time had come to tell her about his situation and ask what the hell to do next.

  No answer. Her flight had taken off. She wouldn’t be reachable until she landed in San Diego—another five hours or so. Facundo and Athos were probably still at the hospital, and the FBI and police were probably still around. He thought again about reaching out to the FBI supervisor who had left the voice mail. His doubts stopped him. How many allies did the Blakes have in law enforcement? At what level? How quickly could they counterattack if they learned what he was up to?

  Pescatore was on his own. But he was in control. He didn’t intend to relinquish it until he had answers.

  He went downstairs. In the basement, Noonan sat on the linoleum with his legs crossed, his hands cuffed behind him to a wooden floor-to-ceiling post. His pose conveyed the patient resignation of a man for whom such a predicament was not unthinkable. A Ping-Pong table and a washer-dryer set were visible behind him. The room smelled like firewood, detergent and plumbing.

  Pescatore removed the gag and blindfold. Noonan shook his head, his stringy hair bobbing. He squinted against the light. Pescatore held out a bottle of water so Noonan could drink from it. Noonan thanked him, a trickle dripping from his goatee.

  “There you go,” Pescatore said.

  He pulled up a chair. The Bersa was in his shoulder holster, the confiscated pistols were in his belt and jacket pocket, the AK-47 and riot shotgun lay within arm’s reach.

  “All right, Noonan,” he said. “We need to have a conversation.”

  Noonan studied him mournfully.

  “Where’s the Major?”

  “Upstairs. Cuffed up and in custody, just like you. You mighta got the wrong impression earlier. I don’t work for Krystak. I didn’t come here to murder you. But you were half right—he definitely came here to murder you.”