Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  "Ziggy seen 'em crashing at a house out Aurora way, out by the old airport. That's what Ziggy saw."

  He meant the old airbase; Lowery.

  "How many?"

  "Ziggy seen three, maybe four, yes sir, he sure did."

  I watched him take a bite out of his sandwich, a Philly Cheese Steak, and then poke around at some fries. How he could eat anything was a mystery because he only had about five teeth. The heroin takes its toll and is impartial to what parts of the body it destroys.

  I asked for the address and he gave it to me, then went back to his food. I took out a hundred dollar bill and laid it in front of him. He looked at me, and for the first time I could remember, his eyes weren't bouncing and his neck and head stopped their movement.

  "Ziggy was real sorry to hear what they done to you… to you and yours. Real sorry." He reached out a bony hand and pushed the money back to me.

  I held his eyes for a few seconds, nodded my head.

  "Thank you, Ziggy." I pushed the money back to him. "It's the department's money, not mine."

  He held the lock for a few seconds more and I saw that he knew I was lying, but the gesture had been made and that was enough. He smiled sheepishly and scooped up the bill.

  "Ziggy can take you there, yes sir, that he can do."

  “No… thanks… but no. You've done enough for now."

  "Ziggy can't say the real bad man was there, no sir he can't say that. But the ones he saw were sons of Mara, that much Ziggy knows for sure."

  I said, "It's good enough, Ziggy. It's a start."

  I parked about a hundred and fifty yards from the house. It was in the cheap part of the redevelopment project. The house wasn't old, but it was already rundown. Nowhere near as nasty as the Santeria witch's house, but ugly just the same. The paint was faded, the shingles a mess, there were bars on the windows and a heavy metal storm door. Behind the windows were thick curtains that completely blocked my binocular's view.

  There was a white SUV parked on the curb in front of the house and the cracked cement of the driveway was barren. I couldn't tell if there was a car in the garage, but there were no windows, so I wouldn't be able to tell even if I chanced sneaking up to the house. Which I didn't plan on doing till dark.

  I saw a pile of about twenty, heavy-gage, thirty-gallon black trash bags on the curb. A lot of trash for three or four guys. I still hadn't shaved and my stubble was slowly turning to a beard and stash.

  Pilgrim sat behind me looking out the window, his giant melon resting on my right shoulder. I reached up and stroked his muzzle and ears. I was about to put him in harm's way, and even though he was accustomed to danger, I was worried about him getting hurt. Couldn't be helped though. I kept telling myself that.

  A big van, with no back windows, pulled into the driveway at around six-thirty. The garage door slid open and the van disappeared inside. No one got out of the van and no one came out of the house and then the garage door closed as though the house had swallowed the van whole. Maybe it had.

  I poured some fresh water into Pilgrim's bowl and waited till he lapped it up. That dog is the sloppiest drinker on the planet and by the time he was done there was a good sized puddle all around the bowl. I mopped it up with a microfiber cloth and swabbed the back of the front seat as well. After that I went back to surveillance, Pilgrim's jowls soaking my shoulder.

  The sun went down around eight and it was good and dark by eight-thirty. Time for some recon.

  Pilgrim followed at my side, gliding silently along, watching everything. I was dressed in black, lightweight sweatpants and a tight black body armor t-shirt covered by a black windbreaker. Typical recon attire.

  The houses were spaced a decent distance apart out here, with bigger front and side yards than back. Most were separated by four-foot-high, chain-link fences that had seen better days. Three houses down from the target location, a stereo was blaring and I could see two blondes, dressed in halter tops and jeans, dancing opposite a twenty-something guy with no shirt and spiked pink hair. There was a big screen TV, a dining room table, a couch and some folding chairs. Not much else, including curtains, which was why I could see so much through the living room window.

  Being one of the Titans of the Dog world, Pilgrim wasn't the greatest jumper. Six feet was about his limit. He was better at going through walls than over them. But since the target house's fence was no higher than the others, he made it with little effort. Together we ran to the west side wall and hugged it tight. The closest street light was maybe fifty yards away and there were no lights lit on the exterior of the residence which was good news for me. Darkness is the friend of recon.

  Stretching on tiptoe, I tried to get a look through the barred side window. Nothing. The curtains were thick, but still, if there was light on the inside I should see something. But it was completely black. I tested the bars — no budge, and in contrast to the rest of the house, they looked new. Interesting. Hmm. What was this? Some top-secret Mara headquarters? A drug house? I looked for cameras — none. No dogs. Unusual for a drug house. My experience with top-secret Mara headquarters was limited, so I couldn't be sure about that, but something weird was definitely going on here and I didn't like it.

  I gave Pilgrim the forward command. He walked to the backyard and stopped, ears high, nose straight, searching the night with his eyes and the wind with his nose. Dogs have exceptional night vision, roughly ten times more acute than humans. But their depth perception is lousy. Movement is what they are masters at capturing. Movement, sound and scent.

  By Pilgrim's posture I knew the way was safe and went around to the back. It was a carbon copy of the front. Bars on the windows, heavy-steel storm door. No light at all. There were more of the black garbage bags stacked along the north wall. A lot more.

  On my belt, beneath the cover of the windbreaker, I carried a holster with my Beretta, the one with no serial number, two extra magazines, handcuffs, a door popper, and a mini Stream Light flashlight. I usually carry my badge too, but since I was being all unofficial, I left it in the car.

  Ripping open the closest bags, I covered the flashlight's beam with my hand and looked inside. TV dinners, dozens of them. In the next bag were more trays and torn clothes with what looked like blood on them. Three bags later I found a broken hacksaw blade covered in dried blood and bits of meat.

  I was beginning to think this wasn't a top-secret Mara headquarters after all. And I was liking it less and less.

  My experience in cartel hostage houses was exactly zero, but I was thinking this just might be one. Human slave trafficking is huge along the border states and we'd been receiving tips from the Feds that it had spread to Colorado, but up till now I'd never run across one. The thought that there might actually be men, women and children in there, packed like cattle, being tortured and killed, made my stomach turn.

  My anger told me to go in, gun out, ready to kill the first threat I saw. But reason said otherwise. No one knew I was here. If I got killed there would be no one to save the people inside… if there were people inside. I could be wrong, or I could be right and they might have already moved all the people out. Besides, there was no way I could kick through that storm door. I'd need a heavy gage pry bar or at least a good ol' fashion American steel tire iron. And even then it would make such a racket it would alert everyone inside.

  The smart move would be to call in the calvary. Problem was I wasn't supposed to be here. I didn't have a warrant. I didn't even have probable cause to enter the curtilage of the property in the first place. And even so, all I really had were a bunch of soiled food packages, some maybe bloody clothes and a bloody hacksaw blade that could have been used to carve up a roast. The bars, curtains and storm doors could easily be explained away to a slightly paranoid security conscious home owner that was afraid of burglars.

  Aurora could do a knock and talk at most with what I had. And all the bad guys would have to do is not answer the door and that would be that. My mind was starting to go crazy
with what might be being done to the hostages I had now convinced myself were in there.

  I started walking back to my car and pulled out the cheap cell phone that I used for Dog. I called 911. A female dispatcher answered on the second ring.

  "Aurora Police Dispatch, do you have an emergency?"

  "Yes," I said with my best scared sounding voice and a heavy southern accent. "I heard screaming and a gunshot and I think someone's being killed."

  "Where's it coming from?" asked the dispatcher, who sounded about thirty, black and all business.

  "Down the street from me."

  "What's the address, sir?" A little annoyance, but still to the point.

  I gave her the address.

  "You're calling from a cell phone, sir, what's your name, address and phone number?"

  "Oh, I don't want to get involved, but hurry, I just heard a woman scream and a baby too and now a man is shouting… no… two men and… oh did you hear that?" I started whispering. "It was another gunshot. Now it's quiet. Oh, why is it so quiet. Hurry."

  I hung up. I was maybe fifteen yards from the house. The garage door opened. The van pulled out, backed into the street and drove away as the garage door lurched downward on its chains.

  Aurora was on the way.

  I shook my head, turned and sprinted, hurdling the four-foot chain-link fence. Pilgrim moved faster than I did and landed ahead of me without even being given a command. The door was at the halfway point. I kicked in the afterburners, made it to the sidewalk, dove and rolled twice, coming up in a kneeling position inside the garage as the door touched concrete. Pilgrim sat next to me, tongue lolling, smiling like this was the funnest game in the world. Maybe it was.

  I'm no acrobat. Both of my knees were skinned and the sweatpants ruined. I checked my holster and other gear; everything was in place.

  Now what?

  I didn't have much time. Aurora was on the way. There might be twenty hard-nosed bad guys inside the house. There might be little kids. I'd read the reports, seen the pictures from Mexico. Little kids like my Marla.

  There was really only one thing to do, wasn't there?

  Putting my hand on the doorknob, I twisted. It was locked. I ordered Pilgrim into a down with a hand gesture. He would stay there, lying and watching, until I called for him. I stood back, seeing Marla's face, hearing her whimper. I raised my leg, kicked with all my strength. The door splintered, sending the reinforced door lock and pieces of the frame shooting across space. The gun was in my hand as I turned into the hallway and came face to face with Hell.

  44

  Tamera Sun was talking with Keisha when she saw Dashon walk in. She no longer worked at the diner. Majoqui didn't want her to work and she was only too happy to comply, but she did go there a couple of times a week to see her old friends. It was nearly nine at night and there were only two hookers at one table and a tired looking business man in a wrinkled suit sitting in a booth along the back wall. And Dashon.

  A chill crept up her back at the sight of him. He had a nasty scar on his lip and another on his cheek where Majoqui had cut him with the antenna. He didn't say anything, just stared at her, his face a blank. She considered leaving, but she would have to pass him to get out the door and she didn't know what he would do. What she did know was that he had a temper and that he thought all women were beneath him. She thought that if she tried to leave without at least acknowledging his presence he might do something. Something bad. Besides, she really did feel bad for him. Dashon was a very proud man and it must have been embarrassing for him to be shown up the way he was by Majoqui. Of course she loved Majoqui for standing up and defending her, but still, a part of her did feel sorry for Dashon. So, as soon as it was polite, she excused herself from Keisha and walked over to him.

  "Hi, Dashon," she said.

  "A coke," he said.

  She looked over the counter, then back to him.

  “I… I don't work here anymore."

  His eyes never left hers and his expression didn't change.

  "A coke… and some fries."

  She looked over the counter again, confused. She saw Keisha looking at her and was relieved when she came over.

  "Can I help you, sir?" Keisha asked.

  "Yeah," he said, his eyes sliding to her. "You can go away." His eyes slid back to Tamera. "A coke and some fries."

  “You’d… you'd better not do anything," she said and there was a tremor in her voice. Her eyes started to well up with tears.

  "And why's that? You gonna do something to me?"

  She shook her head, her pigtails flapping loosely.

  "No, not me," she said. She wanted to sound brave, but she didn't. Not even to her own ears.

  "Not me," he mocked. "Who then?"

  "Majoqui," she said, her voice cracking.

  And now he did smile, nodding his head as though he had gotten what he wanted.

  "Majoqui. That your new boyfriend? The one with the fast hands?"

  She nodded, tears overflowing and running down her cheeks. Somehow she thought she had done something wrong, only she didn't know what. It was like once when she was really little and she'd splashed the milk from the milk pail all over the kitchen floor. Her father had just milked the family cow and was washing his hands in the bathroom. When he came in and saw the mess, he had looked at her in a way that made her feel the way she was feeling now.

  "Where he at, this boyfriend of yours?"

  "I don't know."

  "He still be living with you?"

  She hesitated, not knowing what to say.

  "I don’t… think I should be talking to you?"

  Dashon's eyebrows raised.

  "Is that right? Why not?"

  "You remember… last time…”

  Dashon's hand flashed out, smacking her hard across the cheek. The impact snapped her back and she almost fell down.

  From across the counter, Keisha started toward them again. Dashon stopped her with a pointed finger.

  "You go on back to pouring coffee and whatnot or you'll get worse." He looked around at the meager crew of patrons. "Same goes for the rest of you. Mind your business or I'll be in your business and you don't want that."

  The two hookers and the businessman went back to looking away from them.

  Dashon grabbed Tamera by the arm, his fingers grinding down to the bone so that she yelped in pain.

  "Now I asked you real nice like for a coke and fries, so get yourself back there and do as I say."

  Tamera rubbed at the welt flaming on her cheek and staggered back behind the counter. She was dizzy and there was a high-pitched whine in her ear. She dropped the fry basket into the grease and squirted soda from the fountain into a plastic cup. She set the cup in front of Dashon, rubbing her cheek and looking from him to the fries and back again, not knowing what to do, but wishing Majoqui were here.

  Dashon took a sip and smacked his lips.

  "That's better. Now you showing proper respect. You and me used to be real tight, so I don't want you to think I hold what happened between me and… Majoqui… against you. I don't. But that don't mean you can disrespect me. Understand?"

  Tamera nodded her head, still rubbing her cheek. She'd bitten the inside when he hit her and the metallic taste of blood was sharp on her tongue.

  He looked her up and down.

  "I still say you could make some good money working the streets for me. I'd take good care of you, baby."

  “I… I don't want to do that," Tamera said.

  "Girl, you don't know what you want. You still with that spic?"

  That made her mad. Tamera hated that hurtful, racist term.

  "Don't you call him that. Majoqui is good and kind."

  "Maybe, but he's still just a spic. He's so fresh from swimming across from Mexico that his back's still wet."

  "No he's not," she said, her ire boiling. "He's from San-Salvador, not Mexico. And he has a lot of friends."

  "What kind of friends?" asked Dashon.

/>   Again, Tamera thought she had said something she shouldn't, only she wasn't sure what exactly. She lifted the fries from the grease, dumped them under the hot light and sprinkled them with salt. She scooped out a plate full and set them before Dashon.

  He picked up a fry and took a bite.

  "They ain't Crips," said Dashon. "They ain't Bloods." He took another bite of the French fry. "So who are they?"

  Tamera shook her head, feeling more scared than ever. Dashon already knew Majoqui. They'd fought and Majoqui had even threatened him. Still, she wasn't supposed to talk with Dashon at all and he was supposed to leave her alone.

  "I don't know who they are," she said. "Just friends. But Majoqui will be mad if he finds out that you…”

  Dashon jerked his head towards her as if he were jumping out of his chair. Tamera staggered back, her hand sweeping up as if to block a blow. Dashon sat back down, grinning, and popped another fry into his mouth.

  "If he found out I hit you? I ain't afraid of your little friend with the antenna. Besides, it was just a love tap. Nothing like what I'll do if you get sassy with me again. But you ain't going to do that are you? Are you?"

  Tamera shook her head.

  "I didn't think so. Now tell me about your boy's friends."

  45

  Majoqui Cabrera walked out of the bar in Littleton, flanked by two of his best men. The gym bag he carried was filled with thirty, one-pound Tupperware containers filled with exceptional quality, freshly cooked methamphetamine. The crystals snow white and still wet. There were also two handguns in the bag.

  The Littleton Police car stopped just behind the red, newer-model Lexus they were about to get into. Majoqui watched the car from the corner of his eye. He had personally inspected the Lexus before getting in tonight, having learned from his first encounter with Gil Mason. As little a thing as a faulty license plate bracket light could give police authority to stop you. The cruiser’s headlights made it impossible to see the officer, but Majoqui could feel his eyes on him.