Graveyard

by William C. Dietz

  “And it’s going to work because most of their troops are B. nosilla positive. All they have to do is mix it up with our citizens to inflict thousands of casualties.

  “That’s the big picture,” Corso continued. “But while the military sorts that stuff out, we have to take our city back. And that’s why you’re here. At the moment, we control everything down to Slauson Avenue. But the area south of that, including Inglewood, Westmont, and Bell Gardens, lies inside enemy-held territory. Although we have reports the gangs from the Compton area are hunting the ’tecs down and taking scalps.”

  That produced a chorus of grim laughter, and Corso grinned. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that . . . Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks. When the poop hit the fan, Mayor Getty was visiting a friend in Hawthorne. And she still is. The purpose of this team is to go down and pull her out before she falls into the wrong hands. Because if that happens, the ’tecs or one of the gangs will have a grade-A hostage.”

  Somebody said, “Oh, shit,” and Lee agreed. There were some nice areas inside the community of Hawthorne—but there were plenty of rough spots as well. And that meant a rescue team might have to contend with both the ’tecs and the criminal element. All of which begged the question: What was the mayor doing in Hawthorne to begin with? Especially in the middle of the night? But if Corso knew, he wasn’t saying.

  “Here’s the plan,” Corso said. “The team will gear up, board a chopper, and fly south. You’ll need to get on the ground before sunrise if that’s possible. Two air force gunships will act as escorts. If you take ground fire, they will suppress it. Once you’re over the LZ, you’ll land, go after the mayor, and bring her back.”

  An alarm went off in Lee’s head. “Bring her back?” From where? But before she could ask the question Ferris beat her to it. “So,” he said calmly, “how far from the LZ will the team have to travel?”

  “The LZ is located in a park three blocks away from the mayor’s twenty,” Corso replied. “But I’m told it’s a nice area, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Once she’s aboard the chopper, you’re out of there. It’s as simple as that.”

  Lee looked at Ferris, and he looked at her. Both of them were thinking the same thing. Maybe the mission would be simple—and maybe pigs would start to fly.

  • • •

  The Bonebreaker awoke to a beeping sound. He was lying on his bed in what he thought of as the vault. He’d been dreaming again. Screaming, as they took his mother away. The beeping continued. The motion detectors! An intruder was inside the ossuary! He grabbed the long-barreled .22 off the nightstand and swung his feet over onto the floor. There was no need to get dressed because he habitually slept with his clothes on.

  Cassandra Lee! It had to be Cassandra Lee. His heart was beating like a trip-hammer as he went to the door. Somehow, in spite of all his efforts to keep his lair hidden, the bitch had been able to locate it. But was she alone? Or was half of the LAPD flooding into his sanctuary?

  The Bonebreaker opened the steel door and listened. He heard nothing but the steady drip, drip, drip of water into a nearby puddle. So he slid out into the tunnel with the pistol at the ready. Then he heard a distant clang. A door . . . Someone had closed a door!

  With his heart racing, the Bonebreaker turned to the right and hurried toward the heart of his underground kingdom. That’s where the security monitors were located, and they would reveal what was going on. Unless they found the power tap that is . . . Then they could plunge the ossuary into darkness.

  The Bonebreaker was halfway to his combination workroom and control center when he heard a male voice. He was speaking Spanish. “Hey, Ruiz . . . Can you hear me? All I get off the radio is static. There’s some weird shit down here. Bones and stuff . . . It looks like some kind of laboratory.”

  “I’m coming,” a distant voice answered. “There’s no need to get your panties in a knot.”

  The Bonebreaker was too late. One of the invaders had found the workroom, and another was on the way. But why would members of the LAPD converse with each other in Spanish?

  The question went unanswered as the Bonebreaker slipped into a shadowy alcove and waited for Ruiz to pass. It wasn’t long before the beam from a headlamp appeared, followed by the man it belonged to. The Bonebreaker could see that the intruder was wearing a helmet and a pack. The silenced .22 produced a pop as the Bonebreaker shot the man through the left ear. Ruiz staggered, brought a hand up to his ear, and had just started to turn when the Bonebreaker fired again. The second bullet pulped one of the soldier’s eyes and entered his brain. He fell in a heap. The Bonebreaker listened as the first man called out again. “Ruiz? Get your butt in here. Where’s Lopez? We need to clear this place and move on.”

  By that time, the Bonebreaker knew he wasn’t dealing with the LAPD. So who the hell were they? Not a gang . . . Because gangbangers don’t wear helmets and packs. His thoughts were interrupted as Lopez answered. It sounded as if he was close. “I had to take a pee. What a dump . . . These tunnels run every which way. Uh-oh, what’s that? Shit! Ruiz is down!”

  Lopez was kneeling next to Ruiz feeling for a pulse when the Bonebreaker shot him in the leg. That was the only target available given the way the soldier was positioned and the protection offered by his pack and body armor.

  The soldier swore and turned. He was faster than Ruiz had been and managed to fire a burst of bullets. They passed over the Bonebreaker’s head and hit the concrete ceiling. But the Bonebreaker was ready and triggered three shots. Two of the slugs missed but the third struck Lopez in the forehead. He collapsed on top of Ruiz.

  The exchange of gunfire was followed by a roar of outrage as the surviving soldier fired down the corridor. Bullets bounced off concrete and buzzed every which way. But the Bonebreaker stood untouched. Thank you, Lord, he thought to himself. I live to do your holy work.

  He shoved the pistol into his waistband and ran. Or tried to run. Unfortunately he tripped over Ruiz, stumbled, and fell. A second burst of automatic fire flew over the Bonebreaker’s head as he scuttled away. He was on hands and knees as bullets struck all around. Then he arrived at an intersection and took a turn to the right. The maze! He knew every inch of it, and the soldier didn’t. Hide, he told himself. Hide and strike back.

  The Bonebreaker was able to stand at that point and make better time. How many shots had he fired? Was it five? Or was it six? If the latter he had four rounds left. Not enough to deal with a soldier carrying an assault weapon. So there was a need for something more, and he knew where to get it. The costume room was the enclosed space where the Bonebreaker kept the wide variety of clothing required to create the disguises he needed. But it was a repository for weapons as well . . . Most of which had been acquired from his victims.

  So he dodged from tunnel to tunnel, fully expecting to shake the soldier. But his pursuer proved to be very good at following him. Too good. And the Bonebreaker knew why. The soldiers were wearing helmets equipped with night-vision gear. That meant the man chasing him could see better than he could!

  The Bonebreaker swore, turned a corner, and made a run for the costume room. The door was heavy, and considerable effort was required to push it open. Once inside, the Bonebreaker hurried over to the cabinet where the guns were stored. Then, with a new weapon clutched in his right hand, the Bonebreaker hid behind the half-opened door. Would the intruder enter? Of course he would. The outcome would come down to surprise, skill, and luck.

  The Bonebreaker heard his pursuer before he saw him. First came the scrape of a boot, then the clink of something metallic, followed by the sound of heavy breathing. The soldier entered with his rifle at the ready and paused to scan the room.

  The serial killer cleared his throat, causing the intruder to turn and exposing his badly disfigured face. The Taser jerked as two barbs shot forward. One of them destroyed an eye while the other hooked a scaly cheek. A fraction of a second later, twelve h
undred volts of electricity surged through the leads and entered the mutant’s body. The soldier uttered a grunt of pain, lost control of his muscles, and fell.

  That was all the Bonebreaker needed. There were handcuffs in the cabinet. Lots of them. And once the soldier’s extremities had been secured an injection of Ketamine would render him helpless. Suddenly, and much to his surprise, the Bonebreaker was having fun.

  • • •

  Sergeant Luis Alvarez awoke to find himself living in a nightmare. His left eye was blind, and he couldn’t focus the right one. And when he attempted to move his right arm, it refused to obey. So he tried the other arm, followed by both legs, only to discover that all of them were immobilized. So Alvarez began to blink his remaining eye in an attempt to restore his vision. The strategy worked. Bit by bit, his surroundings rolled into focus. That was when Alvarez discovered that he’d been stripped of his clothing—and was clamped in a contraption made of metal and wood.

  A stainless-steel table was positioned about ten feet away. And there, on the other side of it, sat a normale wearing a mask. The gringo that fired the Taser into his face? Yes. The miserable pedazo de mierda (miserable piece of shit).

  The gringo nodded politely. “Buenos dias, fuck face. And welcome to LA. Judging from the markings on your uniform, and the ID card in your wallet, you are an Aztec. So that’s a given. What isn’t so obvious is why you’re here—and what you hope to accomplish. Please enlighten me.”

  Alvarez summoned a gob of spit and launched it into the air. His command of colloquial English was quite good. “Fuck you.”

  “Oh my,” the Bonebreaker said mildly. “I’m such a lucky duck. It happens that I have a thing for men in uniform. You’ll tell me, oh yes you will, but only one of us is going to enjoy the conversation.”

  Alvarez tried to remember. Ruiz? Dead. Lopez? Dead. But what about Camacho? He was the last man in. Would he step into the room and blow the normale away? Or was this the end of the road? All Alvarez could do was wait to find out.

  • • •

  A blood red sun started to rise as three helicopters flew south. Preparations had taken the team longer than Chief Corso had hoped for. That meant they were visible from the ground and immediately drew fire. It seemed safe to assume that at least some of it originated from the well-armed citizens of Los Angeles, who believed they were shooting at the Aztecs.

  The rest of the fire was almost certainly from troops who had been put ashore south of Los Angeles and were raising as much hell as they could. But since the LAPD helicopter was only lightly armed, and the gunship pilots were supposed to protect it rather than chase ground targets, all of the ships continued on their way.

  Cassandra Lee was seated on the port side of the helicopter with both hands on the pump-action rifle that was resting muzzle down on the floor. She was wearing an LAPD ball cap, a headset with boom mike, and a tac vest loaded with gear. The weather nerds claimed that the citizens of LA were going to have a hot day. With that in mind, Lee was dressed in a black tee shirt and baggy pants. A pair of combat boots completed the outfit.

  But the forecast was for later on. At the moment, cold air was pouring in through the open side doors and caused her to shiver. Or was that due to the fear that was crawling around in the pit of her stomach? Was Ferris scared? He didn’t look scared. But that was part of his job. Never show fear . . . Maybe your team will believe it.

  The ad hoc team was made up of six people—four besides Ferris and her. They included a hulking SWAT team member called Bear, a taciturn patrol officer named Collins, and a firearms instructor named Quigley. An uptight sort of man who most people referred to as Shithead behind his back.

  The sixth officer was a porky desk jockey named Worley. There had been a limited group of people to draw from—but Lee knew that Ferris had chosen each person for a reason. Even if she didn’t know what that reason was. “We’re two out,” the pilot said over the intercom. “Stand by.”

  Lee felt an additional jolt of adrenaline as the helicopter lost altitude. From where she was seated, she could look past the starboard-door gunner and out at the sprawl of houses beyond. It was a residential area for the most part—although Lee saw what might have been a mall flash by. Black smoke was pouring out of it. Had it been looted? Yes, with no cops available to stop them, the locals were “shopping.” And since the fire department couldn’t respond, the fires would have to burn themselves out.

  Suddenly, Lee heard an insistent pinging sound as bullets struck the helicopter’s unarmored fuselage. One slug in the wrong place, and the chopper would be forced down in what was enemy-held territory. That caused the door gunners to open fire. Each machine gun produced a stream of empty brass that jumped, tumbled, and rolled around the deck. Lee couldn’t see the air-force gunships but assumed they were busy prepping the LZ.

  If things went the way they were supposed to, the LAPD ship would land in the park, the extraction team would go after the mayor, and zoomies would keep the chopper safe. The fly guys only had so much fuel, however—so there was a limit on how long they could linger.

  And if things didn’t go as planned? Then, as Ferris put it, “We’ll fake it.” The skids touched down without warning, and Ferris began to yell. “Out! Out! Out! Form on Worley . . . He’ll lead the way.”

  Lee couldn’t believe what she’d heard. “Form on Worley?” Why? That question was still rattling around Lee’s head as her boots hit the ground, and she waited to get shot at. But if there had been any bad guys in the zone, the zoomies had been able to chase them off.

  The park was barely large enough for a crude baseball diamond and some decrepit bleachers. It fronted an arterial and was surrounded by houses on three sides and an elementary school on the fourth. The helicopter’s rotors continued to turn as Worley lumbered away, and the rest of them followed. Lee found herself in the five slot behind Shithead.

  Rather than follow the arterial north the way Lee expected him to—Worley led the team into the maze of houses opposite the north end of the park. During the first couple of minutes, they passed through side yards, crossed an alley, and climbed over a fence. The latter being difficult for Worley—who required help from Ferris in order to roll over the top.

  But by that time Lee had a full appreciation for the method behind Ferris’s apparent madness. Worley might be out of shape, but he knew the area the way only a kid could. Had he grown up there? Lee was willing to bet on it. And because of that, the team could not only stay off the main streets but conceal which way it was going. Assuming that Worley didn’t have a heart attack and keel over, that is.

  They had entered a large backyard when Lee heard a menacing snarl. She turned just in time to see a pit bull charge out of its doghouse and go for Worley. Shithead had a submachine gun slung across his back and a pistol ready to go. He fired left-handed without so much as breaking stride and nailed the pit bull in the head. It performed a somersault and landed hard. Lee was good with a pistol, but not that good. Now she understood why the firearms instructor was on the team. His job, like hers, was to provide security.

  A zigzag path took them past a car sitting on blocks into the gap between two duplexes. From there, it would be necessary to cross a residential street to continue. “We’ll pause here for a moment,” Ferris said. “Collins, guard our six. I don’t want to take a bullet in the butt. Lee, watch the left flank . . . Worley, you have the right.”

  So saying, Ferris raised a pair of binoculars and began to scan the far side of the street. Lee was down on one knee next to a short flight of concrete stairs. She eyed the row of mostly occupied houses to the left and the church at the end of the block. Everything appeared to be normal, but an eerie silence hung over the neighborhood. What noise there was came from a long ways off. It consisted of the pop, pop, pop of rifle fire followed by the clatter of an automatic weapon. Aztecs fighting citizens? Gangs fighting gangs? Both possibilities were equ
ally believable.

  As for the houses around them, Lee could feel the staring eyes. “Lock your doors and mind your own business.” That was all most people could do.

  “Okay,” Ferris said. “It looks clear . . . We’ll cross the street with fifteen-foot intervals between each person. Worley . . . Take the lead. Collins . . . You’re on drag. Let’s go.”

  Lee was still in the five slot so she had time to watch Worley run. She figured the desk jockey was carrying at least twenty pounds of extra weight and loaded with thirty pounds of gear. So as Worley’s legs pumped, it looked as if he were running in slow motion.

  The police officer was halfway to the other side when a bullet struck his left arm, passed through his armpit, and penetrated his chest. He took a nose dive and skidded half a foot before coming to a stop.

  The report was like an afterthought, and Lee caught a momentary glint of light from the corner of her eye. She brought the .223 Remington up and took a look through the scope. That was when she caught a hint of movement. “Ten o’clock,” she said. “Shooter in the church tower.”

  “Can you get him?” Ferris inquired.

  The Rem wasn’t a sniper rifle as such. But the rest of the team members were carrying submachine guns and shotguns. Weapons which, while ideal for close-quarters combat, lacked the ability to reach out and touch someone a block away. “I’ll give it a try,” Lee replied. “I’ll put his head down if nothing else.”

  “Right,” Ferris said. “When Lee fires, three of us will go. Collins will stay back to provide security for Lee.”

  Lee knelt with her left elbow on her left knee and the Remington raised. She’d always been better with a pistol than a rifle. And that was fortunate, since cops rarely get the chance to break out a long gun. But she had the necessary training—and the ability to think her way through a problem. She couldn’t see into the tower . . . But figured the sniper was directly inside the vertical opening, where he could spy on the police.