Paco was the closest to me, so I shot him in the chest. The bullet penetrated his heart-what cops call a kill shot. The gun dropped from his hand, and he fell onto the couch as if he'd decided to take a nap.
At the same time Linderman's shotgun let out a deafening roar. The blast hit Alberto in the waist, doubling him over like he'd been sliced in half. Alberto fell backwards and joined Paco on the couch.
Perez was not touched, and he fired several rounds into Cheever and Theis, causing both men to groan and crumple to the floor. Perez glanced over his shoulder at me, then took off running. Within moments he was out the door. I ran after him.
“Take him out,” Linderman shouted.
I stopped at the open doorway. The school bus had dropped a slew of happy kids onto the sidewalk. They were playing tag, oblivious to what was going on. I blocked them out as best I could, aimed at Perez, and fired.
The bullet popped Perez in the ass, and he flew through the air like someone doing the triple jump, then landed on the front lawn, holding his buttocks and screaming in pain. Half the kids ran away, while the rest simply ran around him.
I went down the path and frisked Perez. He was clean, and I retrieved his gun off the lawn. Cheever came down the path covered in blood.
“Lie down before you bleed to death,” I told him.
“I'm okay,” Cheever said.
“You don't look okay.”
“They're flesh wounds. Go find Melinda. I'll watch this little shit.”
I tossed him Perez's gun and went inside the house. Theis lay on the floor inside the doorway with his eyes shut. He had taken a bullet in the side of the neck. Linderman was pressing a towel to the wound while talking Theis through it.
“Did you call 911?” I asked.
“Yes. Is Perez dead?”
“Shot him in the ass.”
Linderman glared at me. I wanted to tell him not to worry; I was never trying out for the FBI. Instead, I went looking for Melinda.
The back of the house felt like a crash pad, not a place anyone had spent much time in. There were two cramped bedrooms, each with a mattress on the floor and a small electric fan beside it. Walking down a hallway, I came to a closed door.
I twisted the knob and entered. The room had no furniture, save for a video camera and tripod in the room's center and a boom box on the floor. The camera was pointed at a closed closet door. I opened it expecting to find Melinda. Instead, I let out a startled cry.
Hanging from a metal pole was a naked young woman I'd never seen before. A purple rag was stuck in her mouth to keep her from screaming. Everything about her looked dead, except for her face. There was a trace of pink in both cheeks, and I pulled the rag free and untied her wrists. She fell limply into my arms, and I gently laid her down on the floor.
“Wake up. Come on, you can do it,” I said.
At first she did not respond. Then a cough escaped her throat.
It was a tiny sound, like a dead car battery with a spark of life.
Her eyelids fluttered, and she started to breath normally. She stared at me without lifting her head off the floor.
“You're not Skell, are you?” she asked.
I shook my head, and she started to cry.
“I was a present for Skell,” she said.
“Did they tell you that?”
“Yes. Over and over.”
“There's an ambulance coming,” I said. “Everything is going to be all right.”
She was eighteen if she was a day, and conscious that she was lying naked in front of a stranger. I went to the bathroom, grabbed two bath towels, and used them to cover her. If one thing defined the gang's victims, it was their beauty. Every one of them was a feast for the eyes. Even in her distressed state, she was no exception, and I watched her hand slip out from beneath a towel and encircle my wrist.
“What's your name?” she asked.
“Jack Carpenter.”
“One of my kidnappers talked about you,” she said. “He showed your picture to the others. He said if you showed up, they should kill you because you'd kill them. It wasn't a very good picture, though.”
I did everything I could not to laugh.
“You're a brave young woman,” I said. “I need to ask you a question.”
“Sure,” she said.
“There was another young woman the gang was holding. Her name is Melinda. Do you know where she is?”
“She was in one of the other bedrooms. I heard her cry a couple of times. I think they took her away.”
“When?”
“Early this morning, while it was still dark.”
“Did they say where they were taking her?”
She thought about it.
“If they did, I didn't hear them.”
“Did they take her in a car?”
She shook her head. Her fingers tightened around my wrist.
“Would you do me a favor, Mr. Carpenter?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Would you lend me your cell phone, so I can call my mother?”
I took out my cell phone and slipped it into her hand. Then I rose from the floor. I needed to go stick my gun in Jonny Perez's face and find out where he'd taken Melinda. Based upon what the girl had told me, I didn't think it was very far.
“I'll be right back,” I said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“Jack, Jack, get in here! Hurry!”
I ran through the house. Linderman was still tending to Theis, who lay on his back by the open front door. Linderman pointed outside.
“Perez is making a run for it,” the FBI agent said.
I drew my Colt and stuck my head through the door. Cheever lay on the grass with a pocketknife stuck in his leg, while Jonny Perez hobbled down the sidewalk clutching the handgun I'd taken from him. Linderman slapped my leg.
“Finish the job, Jack.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I hurried down the front path. Elementary school kids filled the street, riding bikes and skateboards, kicking and throwing balls. The neighborhood had a lot of crime, and I guessed the kids had seen their share of bloodshed. As I passed Cheever he spoke.
“God, am I fucking stupid,” he said.
I chased Perez down the sidewalk. The bullet in his ass was making it impossible for him to run, and he glanced fearfully over his shoulder. Seeing me, his eyes went wide. I yelled for him to stop, and Perez grabbed a chubby little kid pushing a scooter and threw him to the pavement. The little guy started bawling for his mommy, and I ran into the street to avoid stepping on him. As I did, Perez staggered up the path of a run-down house and banged frantically on the front door. The door sprung open, and a skinny Rastafarian with shoulder-length dreadlocks and bloodshot eyes poked his head out.
“What's up, Jonny?” the Rasta asked.
“The police are onto us,” Perez said.
“That's bullshit,” the Rasta said.
They disappeared inside the house. I ran up the path and stuck my head through the open doorway. The living room was filled with towering marijuana plants and burning fluorescent lights, and reggae music was blaring over a pair of old-fashioned speakers. I stepped inside and was greeted by a screaming motion detector.
Perez appeared on the other side of the living room, cradling a machine pistol. It was the weapon of choice among drug dealers and could fire a hundred rounds a minute. I beat a path out the front door with bullets flying all around me. On the street, kids screamed and ran for cover.
I hid behind a thick hibiscus hedge at the side of the house. Finally the torrent of bullets stopped. I counted to five, then poked my head out. Perez wasn't standing in the doorway, and the house was quiet. Still, I had no intention of going back inside. The walls looked like plasterboard, and Perez could easily kill me from another room.
I heard a door slam, then voices coming from the backyard. Staying low, I sneaked around the side of the house. The backyard was a jungle of tall Bermuda grass and dying citrus trees, with a detached garage facing the alley. I saw Perez carrying Melinda over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. The Rasta walked beside him, cradling the machine pistol. I didn't have a clear shot, and watched them disappear into the garage.