Max leapt lightly onto the bed, barely shaking its frame. He watched the Alpha, seeing his distress. But there was nothing Max could do for him. No enemy to destroy. On a primal level, Max understood that the Alpha was facing his own Great Gray Wolf. And that kind of foe could only be faced alone.
So he lay down next to him and, just as he had with Pilgrim, kept watch over him for the rest of the night.
16
The Sun sent spears of bright light in thin shafts through the tattered old curtains, cutting diagonally across Jerome’s eyes. He looked over at the clock on the night stand and saw that it was just after seven, which meant he’d gotten about four hours sleep. Not enough, but it would have to do. Keisha still slept and she hadn’t awoken once, not even to use the bathroom, which was unusual for her. He thought about slipping out to get her some breakfast, but decided against it, choosing instead to stop somewhere on the road. Less chance of someone getting a trace on them.
Sitting up, his body felt like one great bruise. His nose, still fat and swollen with blood caked around the nostrils, matched the aching, stitched swell of flesh over his eye. And his chest and leg, where the white man had stabbed him with that stupid stubby knife, hurt like crazy. The man could fight. Jerome had gone against some tough opponents, but the white man had been somehow different. If he ever ran into him again, he would shoot fast and not stop till he ran out of bullets.
Only Jerome’s iron willpower allowed him the strength to ignore his body’s demand to lay back down and get more sleep and instead, drag his feet over the edge of the bed and stand up. The room spun for a few seconds and his head felt like a mushy tomato. In the bathroom mirror, he saw his face pretty much looked like a mushy tomato. He ran water cold and cupped it in his swollen, stiff fingers before splashing his face and head, letting the water drip and pour with its refreshing power. He scrubbed around his nose and sucked in a few mouthfuls, letting the water dribble past his lips until it went from pink to clear. When he looked back in the mirror, he appeared a little less pulped. Toweling off, he walked back into the outer room just as the doorframe splintered in. The first man through pointed a shotgun at Jerome’s chest, a look of surprise on his face at finding him actually standing there. The instant of hesitation was all Jerome needed. He slipped the towel from his neck in one graceful movement and snapped it like a bull-whip, striking the Blood in the right eyeball full force, the crack registering the near breaking-of-the-sound-barrier speed. The man screamed, the gun jerking to the side. Jerome grabbed it by the barrel and expertly flipped it up and around as the second and third man filled the doorway. The twenty-aught buck took them full in their faces and throats. High velocity blood misted the air as both bodies dropped in place. The gang-banger that had been hit in the eye with the towel reached for a gun in the front of his pants. Jerome choked the shotgun and blew him nearly in half at less than four feet.
Something hot and fast singed Jerome’s ear, and drywall started exploding behind him as bullets pocked the wall and ceiling. Jerome saw hands with pistols curving around the doorframe… praying and spraying. Jerome calmly aimed at where he thought their heads would be and pumped two blasts through the flimsy doorframe. Lifeless hands dropped their weapons to the asphalt.
Jerome grabbed the bloody gun from the dead banger’s waistband and started for the door. He had to draw the fire away from Clair. He figured the shotgun for six rounds, four of which he’d used up, and the banger’s pistol was a six-shot .38. He would have gone for more guns, but there wasn’t time and he couldn’t take a chance on Clair getting hurt, so he walked right out and saw two more bangers crouched behind a car to the left, both of whom looked up in shock as he emerged, big as life, from the darkness of the room. He sprayed them both with the buckshot, blowing them back away from the car and onto the parking lot asphalt where their blood began to run and pool.
Another Blood jumped up from behind a car to his right. This dude was young — maybe seventeen — with tats and sunglasses and a skewed BB cap against a close-cropped head of nappy hair. He was decked out all in red and black and he held a giant, chrome-plated, Desert eagle .50 cal in one hand, pointing at Jerome’s face. He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened, not so much as a click. Fool had forgotten to chamber a round. He kept fingering the trigger as if he couldn’t believe it wasn’t working.
Jerome emptied the last of the buck into his chest, the small flock of balls disintegrating the fingers and hand that held the gun before impacting his chest and lungs and heart. He died lying on his back, the sunglasses protecting his dead eyes from the sun’s rays.
Dropping the shotgun, Jerome pulled out the .38, which felt like a toy in his giant hand. He searched about, but there was no one else. He went back into the room, saw Clair sitting on the bed, her eyes big and round and scared. He went to her.
“It’s okay, baby. Daddy’s got you. Ain’t nobody gonna hurt daddy’s little Clair.” He put on his pants and a long sleeve button up shirt, then grabbed his bag with the money and guns and clothes and scooped up Clair.
Outside, they were almost to the green Ford Tahoe, when an engine revved and a car squealed into the lot at the far end, gunning straight for them. And in the distance, the sound of sirens coming their way. Jerome’s mind, slow in so many things, did the calculations instantly. He abandoned the Tahoe and ran, with his bag and Clair, between the buildings as the car screeched to a stop and Bloods began spilling out.
17
My phone beeped at 0647 hours. I pried my eyes open and saw Max looking at me, his big head resting on my stomach. I thought about scratching his head, decided against it, hearing Bill Murry’s voice inside my head… baby steps… and saw it was Ziggy calling.
“What have you got for me, Ziggy?”
“Ziggy pretty sure he knows where your people are, that’s what Ziggy’s got for you Mr. Mason. Ziggy heard some Bloods getting high, telling how they was gonna hit a big man and a girl over at the Magic Dust Motel, only you best hurry ‘cause Ziggy heard them say they was going over right then, and that was a few minutes ago, yes sir it was sure enough.”
I hung up without a word and punched in Aurora’s non-emergent dispatch number. For an instant, I’d considered calling the Senator, or even Jared Darling with Aurora PD, but decided there just wasn’t time.
“Aurora dispatch, could you hold?”
“No,” I said. “Gunshots, lots of them. I think it’s a gang fight at the Magic Dust Motel on Colfax and Chambers. Hurry, send everyone.”
I hung up. They might not send everyone, not with the scared little unconfirmed citizen call I’d dealt them, but they’d send at least a couple of cars and Code-3 too.
I jumped out of bed, threw on my clothes, a bullet-proof vest and guns, and called for Max to follow me to the car.
I made good time, it being a Sunday and early and not ski season, but still by the time I reached the Motel, there were police cars everywhere. Yellow crime scene tape stretched the entire perimeter of the Motel parking lot and I saw several sheets pulled over bodies lying on the quickly warming asphalt.
Panic gripped me. Was I too late? Was little Keisha lying under one of those sheets?” I rushed up to the closest cop. He stopped me, of course.
“Back to your car, buddy, nothing to see here.”
He was about forty, with a thick muscular body, bowed legs and a face that had seen too much sun and wind. His short-sleeved uniform was crisp and clean and tight around his hairy biceps. I pegged him for ex-military and long time cop. He held a clipboard with a crime scene log clipped to it.
“I’m Gil Mason,” I said, “Private Investigator.”
“Good for you,” he said, his eyes dull and uninterested, as if he’d seen a thousand of these scenes… maybe he had… “now back to your car. This here is a crime scene.”
“I’m working a case with Detective Jared Darling and the feds.” I held up my newly acquired Secret Service badge and his uninterested eyes suddenly got interested.
“A little girl and a huge black guy were staying here. The Bloods may have set them up for a hit.”
“And that sits with the feds… how?”
I shook my head. “I can’t go into it, secret squirrel stuff, but I need to know if either of them were hurt or killed or taken into custody.”
He looked toward the motel room then back to me. “It was Blood’s all right, all sporting colors and lots of guns. But whatever they ran into took them out hard. No great big guy like you’re asking about and no little girl either. We did find a Barbie Doll on the bed.”
I let out air I hadn’t realized I was holding and felt a weight lift off my shoulders. “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks, man.”
“Can you give us a statement?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
“Secret squirrel?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah.” I fished in my pocket for one of my coins and handed it to him. “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave out my mentioning Jared’s name to anyone else. Talk to him privately if you want, but I wouldn’t want him getting jammed by higher ups.”
He looked at the coin and grinned. “Mason,” he said, “Sheepdogs. I’ve heard of you. Used to work for the County, right?”
“Yes,” I said, “used to.”
“That 13-er killed your wife, right? Her and your little girl?”
My eyes must have turned because I saw the change in him. He went from loose professional to on guard, taking a step back and half reaching for his gun.
“Yes,” I managed.
He swallowed, straightened from the slight crouch he’d assumed, and took his hand from the butt of his gun. “This got anything to do with that?”
My head twitched to the negative.
“Okay,” he said, “okay, sorry I brought it up. I remember that whole deal too. You got a bum rap. I’d have tried to do the same thing. At least I hope I would.” He looked back at the room again. “You trying to save this little girl?”
“Yes,” I said, beginning to calm down.
He reached out and lifted the crime scene tape. “Look for yourself. I know you used to be a cop so I don’t have to tell you not to touch anything.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“CSI is on its way so look quick.”
I nodded and walked through the lot. I stopped and checked under each sheet, just to make sure. Jerome had outdone himself. My only question was whether he’d lost in the end and they’d been taken or if they made it out on their own. And then I saw it, fresh melted rubber that was smeared on the asphalt just a short distance from their room. The tires had come to a screeching halt and then burned out in a classic ‘Y’ reversal and peel out in the other direction. I looked at their first stopping point and saw a break in the buildings. I walked a short distance between the walls of the complex and saw the grass that stretched out for maybe a hundred yards. When fresh grass gets trampled and then dries, it leaves what we in the K9 biz call an alkali trail; kind of a duller green compared to the rest of the grass. Tough to spot unless you make a living spotting things like that. I saw one set of tracks, big, heavy, long stride. Was there a chance? Maybe…maybe. There was no perimeter and that would hurt, but I wasn’t that much behind the eight-ball. With the sirens swarming into the area and bad guys chasing them in a car, maybe they’d gone to ground. Or if not, then at least they would have been slowed, having to hide to stay out of sight of cops and bad guys. So yeah… yeah… maybe.
I ran for my car and Max.
18
Jerome ducked, Clair in his big arms, both hiding beside the corner of a house with thick bushes, as the car of Bloods drove slowly past. Jerome didn’t recognize any of them, he’d been out of that game for too long and old Bloods could usually be counted on one or two hands at the most. No, these were new kids, eager to make a name for themselves. Eager to be blooded.
Clair was quiet, she was getting too good at this. He didn’t want her to have to live like this, but life didn’t always give you a choice, and her staying alive was most important of all. Jerome didn’t know much, but he knew that as long as you were alive you could fix hurts, no matter how deep or how bad. He’d been cut and shot and punched and bit and kicked, and he always healed. But you did have to be alive.
After waiting to make sure a second car didn’t roll on through, a tactic he had started back when he was an assassin that had proven to be very successful in drawing out hiders, he set Clair down and they walked across the street… walked. He knew better than to run. Running draws attention. He heard another siren in the distance, but it didn’t sound like it was coming his way, so he let it go. They walked around the corner and he moved up to another set of bushes so he could hunker down and look around. Lucky for them, most people were still sleeping in at this time of a Sunday morning.
They needed a car. He scanned the streets, but people out here used their garages and the few cars that dotted the streets were way to visible out in the open sunlight. They moved on a few more blocks, taking their time, sticking to the trees and bushes as much as they could. And then, not too far away, he saw the church. It was early, but there were several cars in the parking lot, some in the front, but a few in the back too.
Jerome wasn’t much of a believer, never had been into a church in his life, and a car was a car.
I drove around the motel to the far side, away from police activity, and let Max out. We went to the grassy area and I gave him the track command. With most dogs, I would have put them through a little ritual of putting them in a down and running a leash under their arm, but Max isn’t big on ritual or leashes so I just gave him the command and let him go.
Tracking is the art of searching out a path taken by a person from footstep to footstep. The dog is searching a combination of human scent and ground disturbance. People drop skin cells with their smell on them every second of the day. Some of these cells get caught up in clothing, others blow away on the wind and some drop straight down to the ground. Ground disturbance is what happens when a person moves across a surface. The more disturbed the surface, the easier and longer-lasting the track. For instance, when a heavy man, say like Jerome, walks across a thick lawn, he will break blades of grass, releasing chlorophyll (hence the alkali trail), disturb dirt and dust, knock over small rocks and crush bugs and microbes, all leaving a miniature path of destruction that a dog’s sensitive nose can sniff out. Dirt’s a close second, not as good as grass, but decent. Cement or asphalt not so much. That’s called Hard Surface Tracking in the industry and it takes more training and a dedicated pooch to really master it. Max is that kind of pooch. If someone walked over it, Max can and will follow them. Humidity, wind and temperature all play a part in making it easier or harder, but with Max, it really doesn’t matter. If he’s hunting you, he will find you.
Max cast around for about fifteen seconds before locating the track and taking off like a rocket, leaving me to run along behind him. I still hadn’t recovered from my last case, not to mention the beating I took from Jerome, but he had to quarter a bit and keep his nose close to the ground, so I was able to keep up. He went across the grassy expanse, through a screen of bushes, across a street, along a sidewalk, up to the corner of a house, around to the backyard, over a fence, through an adjacent backyard, through a gate to another corner of a house, across the front yard, down to a sidewalk, back up to the corner of the house, over to another yard, down another sidewalk, back up to some bushes, through yards for about two blocks, past a long fenced area to another group of houses and finally up to a church parking lot where I saw a large figure crammed under a dashboard, legs and butt hanging out the door and little Keisha’s face looking at me through the back window, just like she had been the first time he drove away from me.
That wasn’t about to happen again.
When the Alpha first let him out of the car and put him on the grass, Max caught the thousands of swirling scents that had b
een disturbed by the passing feet. It took him only a short time to locate the starting point and lock in on the track. Once on, he never lost it. The prey was heavy, the man and the little girl he had smelled at the house where he’d fought and defeated his prey. But now the man and the girl were his prey and he would find them. Max would not hurt the girl, she was no threat or challenge… but the man… the man he would hurt.
Max worked fast, the disturbance along the path heavy and easy to follow. Even along the hard surfaces there was dust and left over scent from the grass’s chlorophyll and bug juice and a hundred different odors that were transferred from the man’s shoes to the cement and asphalt. All so new and so easy to follow.
And then he caught their scent… not the ground disturbance… but them… their spore… their individual smells blowing to him on the slight breeze and he left the track to follow the currents of the air like a shark scenting blood in the ocean, honing in with amazing speed and accuracy until he had them in sight… there just ahead. He saw the man, half-in and half-out of the car, and he launched like the torpedo that genetics and training had made him to be.
“Daddy!” cried Clair from the backseat. “It’s that man and his doggie!
Jerome pushed himself out from under the dash, groping for the gun in his waistband as he turned toward the back of the car. Something fast and strong hit him in the forearm and stomach, latching on with crushing force. He slammed into the door, his mind screaming pain as massive teeth crushed down on the meat and bone of his wrist. He tried to pull the gun free, but found it impossible to get past the pain and terror that suddenly enveloped him at the understanding that he was being eaten alive.
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 31