"No-no little miss, please, this is an emergency."
She cocked her head and stuck a hand against an ample hip. "You don't look like yer dying, honey."
"No-no see, I got some information I've got to get to a fella and it's real important."
"Information? What kind of information?"
"It's secret, like. Ziggy say he can't tell, no ma'am, he can't do that."
"Oh yeah? If it's that important it must be worth something."
"Well now, little miss, Ziggy say that if you let him use your phone, the man Ziggy calling would probably give you a nice five spot for your trouble."
"A nickel? Old man, my minutes cost more than that. I'd need at least a dime, and even then, I want some collateral before I hand it over to you. Something to make sure you don't beat feet out of here the second you get it."
Ziggy was a little taken aback by her calling him an old man. After all, he wasn't old. Still, he needed the phone.
"Okay-okay, little miss, only we gotta hurry and Ziggy ain't got no collateral, but you can hold on to me if you want while I call him."
She squinted her eyes at him, then reached out and took hold of his sleeve with one hand while she fished out a flip-phone from between her large breasts with the other.
"Make it fast," she said, tightening her grip on his sleeve.
She had surprising strength for a girl, and to be truthful, she was making him a little afraid. So he punched in the numbers as quick as he could and smiled at her with his blackened nubs of teeth while he waited for Gil to answer.
"Sgt. Mason."
"Yes, sir, this here is Ziggy."
"You have something for me, Ziggy?"
Ziggy could hear the intensity in his voice over the phone and thought that maybe he could get even more than a bill if he played this right.
"I hear say that I do. I hear say that the man with the tattoos is down here."
"Where?"
"Ziggy's going to need the promise of some cash before he can tell you that. Lot's of cash."
Ziggy's eyes darted in their sockets as he tried to calculate what he could get. “Two… three hundred dollars," he said, his voice breaking on the last word.
"And an extra fifty for using my phone," the fat whore yelled into the phone.
"If he's there, Ziggy, and we catch him, I'll give you five hundred dollars. Now quit screwing around, where is he?"
Ziggy could hardly contain himself. "Hear say he's in a club called El Azure Muerta on Hampden."
There was a pause.
"Did you hear it, or did you see him yourself?"
"Oh Ziggy done seen him alright. Seen him his own self, big as life and twice as scary. Seen ’em walk inside and watched ever since and he hasn't left, no sir."
"Where are you?"
"Just down the street, a bit to the west, standing next to a fa… uh… nice little miss who done let Ziggy use her phone."
"Stay there. I'll have a Denver car there in a minute." He hung up.
Ziggy smiled at the hooker.
"What did he say?" she asked. "About my money, I mean."
"Hear say he'll give you twenty-five and not a penny more."
The whore grinned. "Better than ten."
"Yes, ma'am, little miss," said Ziggy. "That it is. That it is."
Old man indeed.
19
Majoqui pulled the chair back for Tamera and then sat beside her. Carlos and the other two sat opposite them. The music was loud, the lights dim and the drinks expensive. Tamera had a beer, she didn't like hard alcohol, while he ordered a tequila with lime.
He had the Americano police officer's pattern down now, after following him the last three days. Better than that, though, was the award ceremony he'd learned about on the Internet. Tomorrow night, he and several other officers from congruent jurisdictions, were being given medals for a narcotics bust they had made earlier in the year. Majoqui spent a good portion of the day plotting the possible routs to and from the ceremony and was nearly certain of the path his prey would take. The rest of the day he spent driving the rout on the Ninja motorcycle, scouting for the best possible location for the ambush.
He found the perfect spot.
Tamera held up her beer mug and he obliged her with a gentle clink of glasses before taking the tequila in one gulp. It was smooth and hot and hit his stomach like a ball of fire. He felt it swim through his veins with incredible speed.
Carlos had gotten here first, checking for police presence and then calling and giving the others the okay to come in. The place was beginning to fill up. There were around ninety or so men and women dancing and drinking and generally milling about. Nearly everyone was Latino, although he did spot a few whites and two blacks in the mix. Other than the four of them, no one else sported Mara signs. He was surprised MS 13 hadn't infiltrated further into Colorado, it being so close to California and Nevada. He made a mental note to bring it up when he got back to Salvador. Business opportunities needed to be taken advantage of.
A clamor sounded at the front doors and people started to shout. Carlos jumped to his feet.
"La policia. Ejecuta!"
Majoqui didn't even turn his head. He grabbed Tamera's wrist and jerked her down under the table. Carlos and the other two were already headed for the back door, shoving people out of their way, but just as they got there, the door opened and three Denver police officers rushed through the doors straight at them.
Majoqui pulled the gun from his waistband and fired three quick shots into the floor. The sudden sound of the shots shocked the crowed into silence and in that instant, Carlos whipped the belt from his waist and slashed the closest of the police officers across the shoulder. Bedlam erupted. Everywhere there was screaming and yelling and bodies running and being pushed and trampled. Majoqui pulled Tamera out from under the table and led her to a wall where they made their way toward the front doors. The police that had been there were pushing through to where the gunshots had sounded, looking for a shooter, while the ones in the back were engaged in a battle with Carlos and his two brothers. Majoqui saw one of the officers shoot Carlos point blank in the chest. Carlos didn't seem to notice. He slashed out with the sword and a red line appeared across the officer's cheek and jaw. Blood sprayed. One of the other cops took a beer mug to the head and the third one began firing into the Mara brother that had wielded the mug. He went down heavy and loose and the cop turned and shot twice more into the third brother, hitting him in the face and shoulder.
Carlos swung the sword again, striking the shooting cop in the thigh. The man screamed and was lost in a swarm of bodies pushing for the exit.
Insanity. The room was dark and packed and loud and smelled of booze and gunpowder.
Majoqui changed direction immediately, pulling Tamera to the back door, shoving people away from them and staying as close to the wall as he could to keep from being knocked down or trampled.
He reached Carlos, who was bent over one of the brothers, trying to get him to his feet, but the man was dead. Majoqui grabbed Carlos and shook him, screaming for him to come with them. Carlos stared at him with blank eyes as blood ran in a steady stream from the small bullet hole in the center of his chest, right where the vest ended, showing his tats. Carlos fell to his knees and toppled to the side. Majoqui knew death when he saw it. He pried the belt sword from Carlos's fingers and dragged Tamera from the nightclub.
Outside, the air tasted remarkably fresh and cool. People were running, women in skimpy dresses were crying, police sirens were screaming toward them from every direction.
Majoqui buckled the sword belt around his waist, just as he'd seen Carlos do, and the two of them made it to the front and started down the street as a sea of police arrived on scene.
Tamera was crying, her shoulders trembling like a little bird. He put his arm around her and led her to her car. The Kawasaki Ninja was across the street and a little way to the east. He gently pushed her inside and told her to drive home and that he would
meet her there. She didn't want him to go, but he stopped her with a raised finger and told her to leave. She did as he said, although it took her several tries before she could manage the right ration of pumping the gas peddle to get the engine started.
Majoqui watched her drive away and then scanned the area. He was there, somewhere. Majoqui could feel him. And then he saw him, across the street in front of the club, his uniform different from the Navy blue of the Denver police. He wore green BDU's, with the pant legs bloused at the top of his black boots, just as he had on their other meetings. Majoqui had learned this was the standard for K9 officers in Colorado.
The deputy, Gil Mason, suddenly stopped talking to the skinny black man and looked in his direction. There were at least ten people milling around him, but it seemed as if he were staring straight into Majoqui's eyes. Majoqui was certain the man couldn't recognize him, what with his disguise and the distance and the dark, but a shudder ran up his spine just the same. A shudder like he had only known when confronting the powers of the supernatural. Without realizing it, he reached up and gripped the three blessed charms that hung from his neck. He turned, shaken, and tried to lose himself in the crowd, suddenly sure that somehow, someway, the man had known who he was and even now was coming toward him. But when he dared a glance back, the deputy was only talking with the black man and not looking at him at all.
He made his way to the bike, feeling foolish and a coward, but still shaking. The vibrating power of the Ninja beneath him helped him regain some semblance of composure, but he gunned the throttle a little too hard, making the cycle pop up and forward and then shoot down the street with an ear splitting sound. He saw the deputy look in his direction a final time and again felt that supernatural dread sweep across him, making his skin crawl and his limbs tremble, as though he were a child afraid of the dark.
Majoqui hated Gil Mason all the more for it.
20
I stripped out of my uniform, careful not to wake Jolene or Marla, who was sleeping next to her. I unstrapped the bullet resistant vest and pulled it over my head. It's way lighter than the flak vest I had to wear in the war, but even this light-weight Velcro felt heavy after ten or fifteen hours, not to mention the thirty plus pounds of gun belt with all it's gadgets. Batman's utility belt has nothing on the modern day cop's belt. Gun, extra ammo magazines, handcuffs, flashlight, nightstick, Taser, pepper spray, rubber gloves, leather gloves, radio, pager, cell phone, keys. Holy overload, Batman!
I pulled up my pajama bottoms and slipped under the covers beside my two girls. I gave them both a kiss then lay back, exhausted. It had been a long day and something was bothering me. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but whatever it was, I could feel it nagging at the back of my mind like a piece of food stuck between my teeth. Of course the fiasco at the club hadn't helped.
I'd told Denver to hold back until I got on scene, but they didn't. Instead, they rushed right in, and if Stitch had ever really been there, he'd gotten away. Worse, all three of the Mara boys from California had been killed and three Denver cops were injured, one of them pretty bad. By the time I got there, it was all over but the crying.
I met up with Ziggy out front and he was able to identify one of the bodies as the gang member that met Stitch at the door. The other two bodies were sporting plenty of MS 13 tats, so I was confidant they were our boys. Only Stitch wasn't with them. And since the dead guys were exercising their right to remain silent, I was back to square one; no closer to catching him than before I even knew about the other guys.
The little girl's cry echoed in my ears and her dead mother's eyeless face stared at me from the table. If only I'd emptied my magazine into him when I'd had the chance. If only he hadn't been wearing that saint’s medallion. If only… if only…
I closed my eyes, praying for the images to go away, and fell almost instantly asleep. I got my wish, the images my waking mind couldn't let go went away. But the dreams… the dreams were worse…
* * *
a sleeve pulled back revealing the fatal faded letters and numbers
eyes black and soulless
the machete spinning and spinning through the dark
the little girl
the little boy
the blood
a medallion
bullets punching through wood
the sting on my face
a motorcycle
everything flash — flashing across the dream like strobes from a camera
sounds crashing like God's thunder
screams, gun blasts, sirens
the dead Denver cop lying on the kitchen floor, his face mostly gone
the eye
one eye
devoid of mercy
so black
the black of eternity
the black of Hell
the banker
his wife, his wife, his wife
the children
Marla
the small arm bent in a way the human arm does not bend
the nurse
all of it coming so fast, so fast
flash — flap — flash
the noise
the screams
the cries
the plunk of bullet's hitting metal
the fear
the excitement
the loss
yellow Volkswagen
the nurse, her neck pulped and swollen
the cop, his head sopped and soggy, blood pooling
the banker's wife
flap — flappity — flap
stitches holding the eye closed
whimpers behind duct tape
three burglars
the crash and smash of shotgun shells and automatic weapon's fire
the blood
the children
the smell
the taste
flap — flash — flap
the face staring at me
piercing high on the cheek
spiked blond hair
Ziggy twitching and talking and bipping and bopping
yellow Volkswagen
Pilgrim hot on the trail
so close
so close
bloody hole surrounded by tattoos
tongues on the table, eyes on the floor
children crying… whimpering
VW at the PD
VW at my house
spiked blond hair, pierced cheek
stitches
stitches
stitches
blood everywhere
machete
eyes black and soulless
faded tattoos sliding back under the sleeve
numbers
letters
and always, always the whimpers of children
21
Jolene traced her finger along the elongated 'Z' shaped scar that rode the upper ridge of Gil's right chest muscle. A piece of shrapnel from a roadside IED had almost ended his life before she even knew him. A thought flitted across her mind, what would her life have been like if she'd never met him. The the very idea frightened her. She loved him so much.
Marla wiggled, fussing between their grown up bodies, and noisily sucked at her thumb. She'd been sleeping with them since the day she was born. Jolene had breast fed Marla until she was nine months old, and sometimes she still missed the feeling, the closeness. Marla was the only thing in her life that meant as much to her as Gil.
It must have been another rough night for him. He'd undressed quietly, slipped under the covers, kissed both her and Marla very gently on the head, letting his lips linger as he breathed them in, before lying next to his girls. Then he draped his arm over them, as though his reach could protect them from whatever horror he might have seen during the night. He'd stayed that way for a long time, staring in the dark at the two most important things in his life. He finally fell asleep just before the sun rose in the east. She'd almost let him know she was awake, almost asked him what it was that was bothering him so much. But she kn
ew him well enough to know that he would tell her in his own time, in his own way. He was always afraid to scare her, to shock her. He would say to her sometimes that the flesh had an evil habit of never letting go of the really horrible things that got into your head. Eventually, he told her almost everything, once he figured the best way to phrase it, to blunt its assault and cushion the effect of the actual events.
What Gil didn't understand was that none of it really scared her, not for her or Marla. It did scare her sometimes for him and the effect it had on him, but not for them. Because she knew and had absolute faith in his ability and resolve to protect them.
Jolene did not hold this position through blind faith. The very first time they met he saved her life. He had been her strength and love ever since. She could not imagine going through life without him.
She let her palm rest against his chest, feeling the strong pump of his heart. It was his heart she loved most about him. Jolene's father was a pastor of a small church and all through her childhood, she and her siblings would read the bible with him. It was always the best part of the day for her. When she was about nine years old, she remembered asking him about a passage in Exodus where God said that He would harden Pharaoh's heart so that he would not let God's people leave Egypt. She didn't understand. God wanted the people to leave, so why would He make Pharaoh's heart hard?
She remembered her father had smiled. He was very pleased with the question and told her how smart she was for seeing through to the heart of a matter that many adults had difficulty understanding. He ran his finger along the lines of text and showed her where God said that Pharaoh would harden his own heart as well. This confused her all the more. Was it God that hardened Pharaoh's heart or did he do it himself?
It was the early afternoon of a hot summer's day and her father just smiled and got up. He went to the kitchen where he rummaged around for a few minutes before coming back with a small yellow tub of Play Doh with a blue lid, a short, fat, heart-shaped candle that he had bought for their mother on Valentine’s day, and two paper plates.
He put the candle on one plate and set it in the window. He popped the lid on the Play Doh and quickly molded a simple, blue, heart shape and put it on the other plate and set it next to the candle. Their Living room had a southern exposure with high windows and so the sun blazed straight down into the window at this time of day.
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 53