by Ty Patterson
‘Yeah, signals here suck.’
Cutter drifted off the main trail and went high up the side of the hill until he could look down on Griffith Observatory.
Got to stay here till it gets dark.
He checked his phone and smiled grimly when he saw the green dot for Zohrab had returned to Little Armenia. There was a fainter signal next to it. That’s Janikyan. He ingested a little of the soluble on my palm. That signal will fade.
It didn’t matter. He had drawn first blood.
I’ll keep going after him, like I did with Covarra, until he gives in.
80
‘He struck me,’ Janikyan said wonderingly as a doctor cleaned up the cuts to his temple and lips. ‘No one has come close to me in years, but Grogan …’ he shook his head in disbelief. ‘One man could do this to me,’ he waved his hand peremptorily to dismiss the medic.
‘But—’ the doctor protested.
‘Go!’
The Armenian boss surveyed his men in the room. Zohrab, with a large, purplish bruise on his forehead, was to his side. The men from the second ride were ranged in front of him.
‘Vartan was with us for a long time. He and Zohrab, the three of us, founded our gang. Now, he’s dead. Killed by one man you couldn’t stop.’
He held his hand out to Zohrab, who placed a dashuyn, a dagger, in his palm. It was a ceremonial weapon with an ornate handle and jewel-encrusted case. The blade gleamed when he extracted it and caught the light.
‘You know the rules,’ he told the assembled men. ‘One of you must die for letting him get to me. Who will it be?’
None of them moved.
‘Garbis?’ He eyed a bushy-eyebrowed man. ‘You talk a lot of how strong and brave you are, that you would die for me. Why aren’t you coming forward? Artoun, you have killed many people. You are one of the most ferocious men we have … you are scared of death?’
He taunted each of the five men in turn, none of whom looked him in the eye.
He spun on his heel suddenly. The dagger rose in his hand and plunged into Garbis’s chest.
‘You … failed … me,’ he panted as he extracted it and jabbed repeatedly as the man groaned and fell to his feet and blood splashed on his hands and face, but no one stopped him.
It was the Armenian Bros’ code.
‘Take him away,’ Zohrab ordered when Garbis’s body stopped twitching, ‘and clean the floor.’ He snapped his fingers and a flunky ran up with a large container of water, a jug and a fluffy towel.
Janikyan raised his arms as his bodyguard undressed him in full view of anyone in the house and then bathed, dried and dressed him in new clothes.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked Zohrab.
‘Yes, boss. I’m sorry I couldn’t—’
‘We’ll get him.’ The gang leader dismissed his apology. Garbis’s killing had given his rage an outlet. He was back in control of himself, but the fury remained in his glittering eyes.
‘How did he know where we would be?’
‘We sweep the house every day, boss. There are no listening devices. We check our vehicles; they’re clean. He must have been watching the alley and followed us.’
Janikyan nodded absently and then snapped his fingers.
‘Call him.’
‘Our friend?’
‘Yes.’
Zohrab dialed a number and brought the phone to his boss.
‘You can’t call me on this number,’ the voice hissed in anger. ‘Not this time of day. You know where I’ll be.’
‘I don’t care,’ Janikyan told him. ‘You heard about the attack on Sunset?’
‘Where do you think I am?’ the speaker’s voice rose.
‘It was Grogan.’
‘Grogan? Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ Janikyan snapped. ‘I know who attacked me. It was him. No disguise. Meet me tonight. Usual place.’
‘I’m in the middle of an investigation.’
‘Do I care? Have you forgotten our arrangement?’
* * *
Janikyan was facedown, being pounded by a masseuse, when the man arrived. They were at a spa in Little Armenia wholly owned by his gang. It closed to customers whenever he was present. Every member of staff was vetted and searched, and the entire establishment was checked for weapons and surveillance devices whenever he visited.
‘What have you found out?’
‘Grogan disappeared,’ the man grunted while another masseuse worked on him.
‘How can he vanish like that?’ Janikyan asked calmly. He didn’t need to raise his voice. He was aware his visitor knew how dangerous he was.
‘We identified the vehicle he drove, a Land Cruiser, but that’s one of the most common SUVs in the city. No vehicle thefts of that make have been reported—’
‘He’ll use false plates.’
‘I am aware. We have found nothing, however. We stopped several drivers and all we got was angry citizens.’
‘LAPD, with all its resources, has nothing?’
‘Give it time.’
‘Time,’ Janikyan snorted. ‘Was it him in the hospital? Why was he there?’
‘To protect Lasko.’
‘The man you want dead.’
‘Yeah. I don’t trust him.’
‘He’s not talking, in any case,’ Janikyan said callously.
‘We’ll get Grogan. He can’t escape forever. He’s just one man.’
‘I’ll get him,’ the Armenian said, bunching his fists. ‘I know what to do.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You’ll know when you see Grogan’s body.’
81
How is that other cop? Cutter messaged Difiore. The one who got shot in the hospital.
Did you shoot him?
No!
Why do you care, then?
I was there to save Lasko!
How did you know it would go down?
I can’t tell you.
Why should I believe anything you say?
Because, he replied spiritedly, I seem to be the only one who’s doing something!
Why don’t you get back to doing something, in that case, she texted sarcastically, instead of wasting my time.
He had no reply to that and checked the green dots on his screen. Both Zohrab and Janikyan were still in their locations.
I can’t repeat yesterday’s move. They’ll be alert to it. Is there an Armenian Bros cache that I can strike and force him to talk to me?
He sucked his breath sharply when the call came. Number withheld. That could be Covarra or Janikyan.
‘That was some move yesterday,’ the Armenian Bros leader said coldly. ‘No one has ever touched me, other than my own men—’
‘I didn’t touch you,’ Cutter reminded him. ‘I hit you. I should have buried the claws of that hammer in you.’
‘There won’t be a next time for you. There will be for me, however. I’ll dangle you from a meat hook, upside-down, and rip your body—’
‘That’s what Covarra said he’d do to me, too. Do you two compare notes? He threatened a lot, and what happened? He lost a lot of his drugs and men. I’m still free, but he—’
‘This is not Iraq or Afghanistan or Cameroon,’ Janikyan swore. ‘This is my city. My people have eyes and ears everywhere. You can’t escape, you can’t hide—’
‘Did you kill my friends?’
‘I’ll watch you bleed—’
‘Did you shoot them? Did you rape them?’
‘You don’t know what you’ve got yourself mixed up in. You should have left the city after the funeral.’
‘You,’ Cutter fought to control his rage, ‘are a gangster. A small one. You are nothing but a sewer rat—’
‘Enjoy your freedom, Grogan. It won’t last. The next time we speak it will be—’
‘Did you kill them?’
‘You’ll have to meet me to know that,’ and with that the Armenian hung up.
Cutter brooded for a moment before jamming the phone in his pocket. The call had giv
en him an idea. There’s someone who might know where the Bros operations are.
He had to gear up appropriately for that, however.
* * *
‘I need a van,’ he told Beth and Meghan when he got them on a call.
‘You can steal one. Why do you need us for that?’ the elder sister asked.
‘This one is different. It has to be a gas company van.’
‘You want to go as a gas technician?’ Meghan mocked him. ‘You’ve been reading too many pulp thrillers—’
‘It’s the third house on the left on Apple Street, in Mid-City,’ he interrupted, before she or Beth started ribbing him. ‘It’s used by Street Front as a store.’
‘You know this, how?’ Beth commanded. He could hear keys clicking in the background.
‘Not important.’
‘Got it,’ she said softly, almost to herself. He could picture her and Meg in their New York office, intense concentration on their faces as they brought up satellite images of the street.
‘SoCalGas is the energy supplier to that house,’ the older twin informed him. ‘You’ll need their van, or one that looks like theirs, their uniform …’ she trailed off.
‘We’ll need to log him in their system,’ Beth told her, both of them talking as if he didn’t exist.
‘Yeah, we can do that. We can hack into it—you can’t be alone. Their technicians rarely go out on their own.’
Who can I take with me? Cutter frowned as he thought hard and smiled to himself when it came to him.
‘You can get uniforms for me and another person? He’ll be about an inch shorter than me, about the same build.’
‘We can get you an Abrams tank.’
They probably mean it, too.
‘Give us three hours,’ Meghan told him. ‘We’ll text you where you can find the van, the uniforms, the equipment inside, everything you’ll need.’
‘How are you able to organize this stuff when you’re not in the city?’
‘You’ll never know that.’
‘Why are you folks helping me this much?’
‘We want you alive long enough for Difiore to slap cuffs on you.’
They chortled when he had no comeback to that and hung up.
* * *
‘No!’ Isaiah Limon shook his head firmly. ‘I have no idea who you are, what crazy stuff you’re up to. You got me to crash into a car on Sadler, I did that for you. I gave you my cab—’
‘And you got paid well for that.’ Cutter fanned himself with bills. ‘These bennys,’ he added, looking pointedly at the hundred-dollar notes in his hand, ‘are yours. You need to drive a van for me. That’s all.’
‘Nope. Nada. Read my lips. Where’s my car?’
‘I see you got a new one. Why do you need another?’
‘Go.’ The driver gesticulated angrily and took a breath when that got the attention of a few travelers at LAX-it. ‘I don’t want to see you anymore.’
‘My heart’s broken,’ Cutter told him solemnly. ‘I thought you and I had a thing going on.’
Limon looked at him as if he had lost his senses.
‘You’ve earned more money by helping me than by driving people around.’
‘I’m alive, I’m not arrested. That matters to me,’ the cab driver retorted.
‘You’ll be all of that, and richer, if you come with me.’
‘Come where?’
‘To Mid-City.’
‘And do what?’
‘Nothing,’ Cutter told him innocently. ‘You just need to sit in a van and look official.’
‘Official? Like what?’
‘Like a gas technician.’
82
‘I don’t want to see you again,’ Limon grouched as he drove his new cab to a big-box store on Sepulveda Boulevard. ‘When this is over, you get out of my life and never return.’
‘You don’t know what I really look like,’ Cutter reasoned with him. ‘How would you know if I came to you in a disguise?’
The driver looked at him suspiciously and turned back to the street when a car honked behind him.
‘Ever since I met you—’
‘You’ve made more money than ever before. Go to the back,’ Cutter instructed him when they reached the store.
He fist-pumped inwardly when he saw the white panel SoCalGas van parked in a corner, with no other vehicle near it.
‘Is this stolen?’ Limon eyed the vehicle warily when he got out.
I don’t know.
‘No,’ he replied confidently. He went to the rear wheel well and ran his hand along its arch. Grunted in satisfaction when he found the key attached magnetically.
He unlocked the vehicle and opened the rear doors. Cast his eyes appreciatively over the racks of equipment inside. He brought out his phone when it buzzed. A text from Beth.
You’ll need to carry the tool bag, which is to your right, on the lower shelf. The scheduler is above it. You’ll have to get the occupant’s signature on it. If you get any questions, get them to call the number printed on it.
‘What’s that?’ Limon demanded. ‘Who’s messaging you?’
‘Nothing to do with you,’ Cutter pocketed the phone and picked up the scheduler. It had SoCalGas’s logo on it, a telephone number and a stylus for writing on the screen or taking signatures. He pressed a button on the screen and a job number came up, assigned to Roy Pollock. That’s me.
‘Here,’ he handed the driver a uniform, ‘change into this.’
He went to his backpack while Limon changed and inspected the equipment he would need. Explosives, remote-controlled detonators, cables—yeah, he had everything he needed.
‘You look smart,’ he told the driver when he emerged. ‘Here,’ he tossed him a set of cheek pads and a false nose. ‘Apply these, too.’
‘Why?’
‘You want anyone to describe Isaiah Limon?’
* * *
‘I have never ever done this,’ the driver swore softly as he navigated the van expertly to Mid-City.
‘You have never earned ten grand for doing nothing, either.’ Cutter pushed his seat back and closed his eyes.
‘If we get caught—’
‘We won’t. Drive, look as if you belong behind that wheel, say you’re Brice Lanza, employee of SoCalGas, show them your identity card. Relax, you’re cool.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ Limon grumbled. ‘You do this for a living.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Have you looked at yourself, dude? This comes so easy to you.’
‘Wake me up when we get there.’
* * *
Cutter was conscious of eyes on him when he opened the gate to the Apple Street house and went up the walkway. Can’t see anyone, but I can feel them watching from inside.
He went to the door and knocked firmly. Repeated it when there was no response. Was raising his fist when a burly man opened it.
‘Yeah?’ the man asked rudely.
Tats all over his arms and on his neck. His right hand’s behind his body, probably holding a gun.
‘SoCalGas,’ Cutter tapped his uniform. ‘I need to inspect your meter, the water heater and run a few checks. We’re getting faulty readings from several houses in Mid-City.’
The banger looked at him and then at the van on the street in which Limon sat. He shifted his weight as he breathed noisily.
I bet he’s never had to deal with a gas technician.
‘YO!’ he half-turned and bellowed. ‘Someone’s here.’
A lean man came to him, eyes watchful, face still.
He’s likely to be the shot-caller on the street. Tasked with protecting the product inside.
‘Yeah?’ the arrival asked him.
‘Got to inspect your meter and equipment,’ Cutter repeated his story.
‘No one told us about that.’
‘No one will. You don’t get calls beforehand. We are checking every house in Mid-City; yours is next on my run. Here,’ he opened the electronic
scheduler and turned it around for the bangers to see. ‘Roy Pollock, that’s me.’
‘We’re in the middle of something,’ the shot- caller said, giving him a false smile. ‘Come back later.’
‘No can do,’ Cutter shook his head. ‘We’ve got several complaints already, and if I don’t fix this today, my boss will have my ass. Look, this won’t take long. About half an hour at the most.’
‘We’ve never had a gas—’
‘Sir, please call my office and speak to them. They’ll confirm what I said.’
‘All right.’ The shot-caller glared at him and checked out the SoCalGas van on the street. ‘Meter’s outside. Felipe will take you to the water heater when you’re done.’
‘Keep an eye on him,’ he told the hitter in Spanish in what he thought was a low tone, but Cutter heard and understood him.
* * *
‘Can you give me some room?’ He looked back in irritation when Felipe crowded behind him at the meter. ‘This is gas. It can be dangerous. Step away, please.’
‘I’ve got to—’
‘You can go to the front and stay in the yard. Safety regulations, sir. There’s shade there.’ He dropped his voice.
Felipe looked at him as he wiped his sweat and nodded.
Cutter turned to the meter swiftly when the banger had disappeared around the corner. He molded C4 and applied it to the rear of the equipment. Inserted a detonator, rigged up the remote receiver and used electrical tape to cover the assembly.
He went to the front and nodded to Felipe. ‘Need to go inside, to the water heater.’
The banger wheezed as he climbed the porch and entered the house. ‘Toy gun,’ he laughed uneasily when Cutter eyed the AK47 that was propped against a wall. ‘I and several friends are renting this place.’ He nodded when another man appeared in a hallway, looked at them and went inside a room. ‘We were fooling around when you came.’
I bet you were.
Felipe took him to the utility room at the back and pointed to a wall-mounted water heater.
‘Need to work alone, buddy,’ Cutter told him softly, waited for the hitter to leave and was turning to the heater when he heard the murmur of voices outside.