Powder Burn

by Ty Patterson

19

  The blast was audible even where he was, at a distance from the house.

  On screen, the guards reacted predictably. Some fell to the ground, others clutched their eyes or ears. Those at the front and rear gates rushed inside.

  He dropped the second grenade just outside the front door and kept the drone in hover mode as he revved the Ninja.

  Counted down to himself as he watched orange-yellow figures in the house burst into action. A garage door opened. A vehicle nosed out.

  ‘SOUTH SADLER AVENUE,’ he instructed his drivers.

  His Ninja surged ahead, responding smoothly to his throttle command.

  The first Land Rover exited the back alley and approached Sadler.

  Left, or right? Left would take it to Whittier Boulevard, right would go to East Sixth.

  The vehicle went right, just as two more Land Rovers followed it out.

  ‘THREE LAND ROVERS. BLACK,’ he yelled at Limon. ‘TAKE OUT THE FIRST ONE BEFORE IT REACHES SIXTH.’

  ‘TAKE OUT THE LAST ROVER,’ he instructed Garrido and watched the screen for one last moment to check that no other vehicles emerged from the house.

  He pressed Self-Detonate on the screen, and the feed went blank as the drone exploded.

  He took the turn and joined Sadler. Spotted Garrido’s Camry and raced past him, a dark figure on a black bike, easily powering past slower-moving vehicles.

  The first Land Rover, which was Ruben’s target, was two vehicles away. He slipped between the two rides and waved a hand in acknowledgement when they made room for him. Just because he was on a deadly mission was no reason not to be polite.

  The car ahead of him carried just its driver. Through its rear and front windows, he had a clear view of the SUV and could see shadows moving inside, despite its darkened rear window.

  Three vehicles in the bangers’ convoy. It wasn’t the presidential cavalcade, where an entire group of vehicles could be a dummy move while the Commander-in-Chief rode in a different convoy.

  Covarra and Salazar will be in the middle vehicle. He could see it as it sped through the traffic. In the distance, traffic lights on East Sixth, strung out in the sky.

  ‘NOW!’ he ordered both men.

  He watched as Garrido overtook him. Ignored the angry honks from behind as his slowing down forced other vehicles to follow suit.

  The Camry was driven expertly as it sped up and crashed full-on into the back of the Land Rover and kept going; the force of the impact drove the bigger vehicle onto the sidewalk, where it smashed into a lamp post and stalled.

  Cutter didn’t turn to watch. He could see Garrido jump out of his vehicle and run, and then the crash was behind him. The middle vehicle slowed. He could see figures moving inside violently. Hands waving.

  Wait. Let Limon make his move.

  The LAX driver acted before his thought finished.

  There was a commotion ahead. Tail lights turned red. Squeals of brakes and shouts that he could hear even through his helmet and the rushing of air.

  Covarra’s ride slowed and stopped.

  The driver’s door opened.

  A Hispanic-looking man jumped out.

  Which gave Cutter the opening he wanted.

  20

  The Ninja glided as smoothly as a snake as it cut past the ride in front and approached the SUV.

  The driver heard it approaching and half-turned.

  His mouth opened to yell a warning shout when Cutter shot him in the right shoulder and followed that with a round to his chest.

  He sprang off the bike and let it crash to the ground. A large stride to the SUV, whose front door was open, moving with liquid ease, a tall, dark-clad figure filled with lethal intent and deadly capability as drivers around him honked, several vehicles swerved around and passed, while a few stopped to unload their occupants, who watched in horror.

  Cutter paid them no attention. He was in his zone as details registered automatically.

  Driver door open. A passenger, recovering swiftly from shock, reaching for a rifle between his legs. Two men in the backseat. Covarra and Salazar. Their mouths open, eyes narrowing.

  He shot the passenger in the shoulder and threw a tear-gas grenade into the vehicle. Slammed the door shut and kicked the passenger door back when Salazar tried to escape. He shot into the vehicle’s base deliberately and ran behind the rear and caught Covarra just as he fell out of the vehicle, coughing, tears streaming down his face.

  ‘Why did you kill Arnedra and Vienna?’ he hissed coldly as he jammed his Glock against the man’s neck. Time was running out. Cops could show up any moment. The hitters from the other Land Rovers would approach.

  He shook the gang boss hard when Covarra raised his face uncomprehendingly.

  ‘THOSE WOMEN IN THAT BEVERLY HILLS HOUSE. WHY DID YOU KILL THEM? WHO RAPED THEM? WHO PULLED THE TRIGGER?’

  He repeated it in Spanish and pressed his gun tighter against Covarra’s neck.

  ‘Who … they …’ the Street Front leader flailed with his arms as he drew gulps of air. ‘I … didn’t—’

  ‘YOU HAD A SHOOTOUT WITH SOME OTHER GANG. YOU LEFT THEM THERE.’

  ‘WHICH WOMEN?’ Covarra roared back as he regained his strength. ‘YOU!’ He stabbed a finger at Cutter’s chest. ‘DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN—’

  He broke off with a shriek when his finger was twisted in a merciless grip and snapped.

  Cutter turned him around and used him as a shield to walk back to his bike. Spotted the approaching bangers. Shot at their feet, making them dive away. Someone screamed. Rubber burned and engines whined as vehicles came to sudden stops.

  Cutter didn’t stop moving. He lashed out at the Land Rover’s door, which was opening. It slammed back and caught Salazar in the face.

  He sent Covarra crashing against the vehicle, upturned his bike in a flash and climbed on it.

  He threw a phone at the bangers’ boss. ‘CALL ME,’ he ordered. ‘I WANT THE KILLERS AND THE RAPISTS. AND IF YOU ORDERED THEIR DEATHS, I WILL COME FOR YOU.’

  He revved and the Ninja shot past the Land Rover. The first convoy vehicle to his left, Limon’s Ford, buckled into its rear. Shattered windows and steam. Ugly skid marks on the road.

  Movement!

  Two hitters came around the front, their guns raised. Cutter straightened his gun arm and fired in a continuous stream at them, jammed his gun down his jacket when they fell behind him, and weaved through the crowd of vehicles at the front.

  He swerved momentarily when something slammed into his back with the force of a tree trunk. His armor had taken one of the hitter’s shots. He recovered his balance, and then he was away, hanging a left on East Sixth, taking a right at Margaret Avenue, and then opening up the throttle.

  Cops will have been called. They’ll have choke points.

  He had prepared for that. He took turns at dizzying speed, cutting illegally through red lights and racing until he wheeled into the parking lot of an enormous self-storage center in East Los Angeles.

  A truck at the far end, permanently broken down, was his destination. No other vehicles nearby, since the parking spaces were inconveniently located. He knew the security cameras didn’t work. He had jammed them with an EMP blast before heading to Hubbard.

  He parked behind the vehicle, removed the HK in its leather case, and slung it across his shoulder. Cracked the drone’s screen with his feet and tossed the largest pieces onto the bike.

  He reached beneath the truck and grabbed a can of lighter fluid he had stowed there. Sprayed it liberally over the Ninja and set it alight.

  He hustled to the Tahoe he had parked in front of the truck and dumped his helmet and jacket in its trunk. The HK went into the passenger foot well. Nine minutes after attacking Covarra, he was driving out of East LA.

  He switched cars on Wilshire, where he had parked his Land Cruiser. He drove it out and headed to Lake Hollywood Drive, parked, and hiked up the Burbank Peak Trail with just a backpack and his Glock.

>   He cut away from the tourist hiking paths and took a lesser known track to climb up to a spot he knew from his previous visits. Underneath the overhang of a tree, near the crumbling cliff face.

  Santa Monica Mountains spread out, views of Burbank and Hollywood, and the orange sky over LA above.

  He stayed there until it went dark and lit a fire. He changed into a spare set of clothes and burned his attack outfit and disguise until they turned to ash. Gathered and blew them over the cliff.

  He ate a cold dinner and thought back to the attack.

  Had he left any traces of himself?

  The Durango was still on Hubbard. I’ll recover that later. It was untraceable in any case.

  He was sure the cops couldn’t place him at the scene. His cell phone would show he was elsewhere. Covarra won’t go to the LAPD. He’s wanted by them. There’s no way he’ll turn to the cops.

  The gang leader’s expression stayed with him, however.

  He was surprised when I asked him about the killing.

  He considered that as he chewed slowly and the night turned colder.

  Was it possible that the LA Street Front wasn’t involved?

  Does it matter? he thought savagely. If I can find out who triggered it, I can track back to the killer and the shot-caller. Their gun was at the scene. Find who triggered it, and I’ll get to the killer.

  He wrapped up the remains of his dinner, scattered dirt over his tracks and ghosted down the mountain.

  He could have killed Covarra and Salazar, but that hadn’t been his objective. He wanted confessions and the perpetrators. He had always known grabbing the gang boss would be impossible to carry off in the street. Hence the attack the way he had staged it.

  His face turned grim, hard, as he recalled Cruz’s words, what Vienna and Arnedra had undergone. He was one man, and chances were high he would get killed.

  Not before I get some answers, he vowed. I won’t let up. I will keep coming until Covarra uses that phone and calls me.

  21

  ‘ONE MAN!’ A vein in Covarra’s forehead stood out as he yelled at those assembled in front of him. ‘ONE MAN ON A BIKE. HE GOT THIS CLOSE,’ he held up his left thumb and forefinger, which was bandaged. ‘TO KILLING ME. HE BROKE MY FINGER. YOU HAD AR-15s, AKs, GHOST GUNS, ROCKET LAUNCHERS—AND YOU LET HIM GET AWAY.’

  ‘Those crashes left us out of it for some time, Snake,’ a hitter replied, without raising his eyes from the floor.

  ‘YOU WERE OUT OF IT? YOU DIDN’T THINK ABOUT ME AND FUSE?’

  ‘There was traffic. Too many cars. We couldn’t have escaped if we had opened fire. He was on a bike. He had that advantage.’

  Covarra stared at the thug in rage and, with a curse, drew a nine-mil gun from his pocket and shot him in the chest, triggering until his magazine emptied. Salazar grabbed his gun and snatched it away and made soft, soothing noises in his ear.

  ‘Go,’ the deputy ordered the remaining guards. ‘Take Cisco’s body away. Dispose of it. Felix,’ he looked at a senior hitter. ‘Send people back to Hubbard and Sadler. Question everyone in the neighborhood. Carefully. Someone must have seen this shooter arrive.’

  ‘Cops are all over the place. They’ve been there since yesterday.’

  ‘We’ve got our own men in several houses on Hubbard. Their families might have noticed something. Go!’

  ‘He could have killed us.’ He turned to the leader when they were alone in their Central Alameda house. It was another gang hideout, with security similar to the one on Hubbard—with one major difference. Bangers were on the street, in cars, watching every passing vehicle suspiciously.

  ‘I am aware of that,’ Covarra snapped. He brought out the phone the attacker had tossed at him and inspected it. ‘It has one number on it. His, I’m sure.’

  ‘Those women …’ Salazar frowned thoughtfully. ‘It was all over the news.’

  ‘I remember. It didn’t strike me just then.’

  ‘Why did he think we’re responsible?’

  ‘Why don’t you find out?’ Covarra snarled at Salazar. ‘We have contacts in the LAPD. Is there something they know? What’s the situation with Moe, Dime and the others? Who killed them? WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE? GO FIND SOMETHING. FIND THIS SHOOTER!’

  Salazar left the room quickly and breathed easier when he was in the hallway. Covarra’s rages were legendary. He could go into brutal killing mode for no reason when he was in this kind of a mood. The deputy was a stone-cold killer himself, but even he had no wish to be around Covarra when he’d worked himself into this state.

  He went to a bedroom and slapped the rump of a woman, who giggled. He gestured at her with his finger and, when she left, he called a number.

  ‘I need to know everything about those killings in Beverly Hills. Yeah, those women,’ he told a police captain. ‘No,’ he said menacingly. ‘I don’t want excuses. I want information. We pay you well enough for this.’

  He hung up and went to search for Felix, who was climbing into a vehicle packed with other hitters. ‘Go to Sixth Street as well. Question people there. He went down that way.’

  ‘It won’t be easy,’ the heavy said, glancing at the house. ‘What does Snake think we should do? Go door to door and say we’re from the Street Front, and hey, did you see who that shooter was?’

  Salazar grinned at him and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way.’

  He beckoned at a driver and gave him Moe’s address on Oregon Street. He had to inspect the dead banger’s house himself.

  * * *

  Covarra watched the activity from an upper floor bedroom. His rage had subsided, leaving him bitter. His gang was one of the deadliest in the city. Even the larger, more established ones respected his outfit’s boundaries. Only the Armenian Bros went up against him.

  Could he be Janikyan’s man? Why would he bother about two women?

  He had a back channel into the rival gang. ‘Toros,’ he said on a call to the Armenian street dealer. ‘It’s me. Was your gang involved in a shooting in Beverly Hills?’

  ‘I know,’ he snapped when the man squawked in reply, ‘it’s not your territory. Why don’t you find out?’

  He threw the phone to the bed, lay down on it and stared at the ceiling. Fury washed over him again. He was Francisco Covarra. His hitters and enemies called him Snake because of his deadly killing nature. And here he was, hiding in South LA because of one motorcycle rider. One man.

  He would find that man. He would kill him slowly. He might even drink his blood.

  22

  Difiore knocked briefly on Lisa Dade’s door and promptly opened it, but stopped so abruptly that Quindica bumped into her from behind.

  The police chief stood behind her desk, arms akimbo. Facing her were Matteo, Cruz and a third police officer she didn’t recognize.

  ‘We’ll come back,’ she said hastily and made to close the door, but Dade made a beckoning gesture.

  ‘Come in,’ the chief growled. ‘You might as well sit through this. You’re security-cleared. You know Vance. Meet his task force deputies: Diego Cruz, LAPD, and that’s Gus Estrada from the BHPD. Joint task force. Gus, Diego, that’s Peyton Quindica, FBI SAC, and Gina Difiore, NYPD, but seconded to Gina. They’re helping me with something.’

  Difiore took a seat to the side of the office and was joined by her partner. She didn’t mention our investigation. Which meant Matteo’s deputies were in the dark.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ Dade carried on as if there had been no interruption, ‘a motorcycle rider can attack a convoy, in broad daylight, in my city and get away with it?’

  ‘He wasn’t acting alone, boss.’ Cruz shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘Those two cars, those drivers were likely working with him.’

  ‘You got nothing from those vehicles. Two men bought them, paid with a credit card that has a false address to it. Facial rec can’t identify those men. Who are they? The remains of the drone … you can’t trace where it’s from. That rider was after Covar
ra. There are videos all over the internet. Chances are good that Salazar was in that vehicle, too.’

  ‘Covarra.’ She leaned over the desk and drilled Matteo with her green eyes. ‘LA Street Front’s boss. Guy we’ve been hunting for months. We thought he and Salazar were in Mexico. They were here all along, in that house on Hubbard. Why didn’t we know about it?’

  Difiore expected the detective to offer explanations. He nodded instead and got to his feet. His deputies took his cue and rose with him.

  ‘We messed up,’ he acknowledged. ‘We’ll do better.’

  ‘Do that,’ Dade ordered, ‘before this rider turns this city into his personal battleground. This isn’t another banger. The gear he used, the moves he made, Mystery Rider is one smart operator.’

  She settled back into her chair with a sigh and gazed broodingly into the distance. Picked up her phone and told her assistant to hold her calls. ‘Yeah, I know the mayor wants to talk to me. I’ll call him when I’m done.’

  ‘You’ve seen the news?’ She beckoned at her visitors to occupy the chairs Matteo’s team had occupied.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Quindica answered drily as she took the seat next to Difiore. ‘We could hardly miss it. The videos are on repeat on TV and all over the internet.’

  ‘Who took them?’

  ‘Many people,’ the police chief said, addressing Difiore. ‘Bystanders, passengers in cars that had stopped—heck, there’s one clip from a bedroom window. From one of the houses at the side.’

  ‘That rider knew what he was doing.’

  ‘He was a professional,’ the SAC agreed. ‘No wasted movements. Taking out those outriding cars was a genius move.’

  ‘He spared Covarra, which means he wants something from the man.’

  ‘He threw something at him.’

  ‘A phone.’ Dade turned her screen to face them and played a clip that had been sharpened by LAPD’s technicians. ‘And here,’ she forwarded the video and resumed playing, ‘looks like Rider got a round in his back. See the way he swerves.’