The bet your ass was a bit too gung-ho for my liking, but better that than having him go all wobbly-kneed on me if things went sour. “Well, backup’s on its way, so don’t you go and play hero or anything. Just stay sharp, all right?”
His jowls sagged with disappointment at that, and he gave me a glum, “I hear you.”
“And don’t look at them when you let me in.”
Terry nodded again and stepped back to roll the barrier aside for me. I gave him a small nod back as I drove in.
“I’m in,” I told Villaverde.
I pulled in behind the warehouse and continued all the way down to its far end, where I parked alongside its wall.
Villaverde’s voice came back. “I’ve got a Harbor Police black-and-white about three minutes out and another on the way.”
I picked up the phone and killed the speaker function as I got out of the car. “Keep them back and tell them not to approach until I say so,” I insisted firmly. “Make sure they understand that, David. I don’t want my guys to bolt and I don’t want this to turn into the OK Corral either. These guys like to shoot stuff up.”
“Copy that. And keep the line open.”
“Will do.”
I had to move fast.
I took off my jacket and chucked it into the car, then pulled out my gun, chambered a round, and flicked the safety off before slipping it back into its holster. Then I set off.
I trotted down the back of the warehouse until I reached its corner, making sure I couldn’t be seen from the street. There was some tall grass growing at the base of the wire fence that provided a small measure of cover. I’d seen my guys pull up on the other side of the street, but this wasn’t the kind of street people parked on and I didn’t think they’d still be there.
I peered out and surveyed the area.
I couldn’t see them at first—then I spotted them. They were parked in the small lot of a marine supplies store, almost directly across from me. The spots were slightly angled, herringbone-style, and the sedan was nose-forward facing toward Terry’s gatehouse—which meant I needed to move farther down the fence before climbing over it if I didn’t want to be scaling it almost in direct view of my goons.
There was a second warehouse sitting behind the one I was hugging. I nipped back along the wall and away from the street, made sure the goons weren’t looking my way, then sprinted across the gap between the two buildings, staying low. I kept running all the way down until I reached the far corner of the second building, took a cautionary peek behind it, then went around and kept going until I was crouched close to the fence again. I figured there were now a couple of hundred feet between me and them. It was enough.
As another truck rolled by outside, I crept up to the fence and gave it a little tug to test its rigidity. It was solid, and the diamond shapes formed by the crossed wires were just wide enough to accommodate the tips of my shoes. I stayed low and waited for another truck to trundle by, then I got something even better—a big eighteen-wheeler coming out of the bonded warehouse facility itself. I reckoned it would snare my goons’ attention, and I tensed up, ready to move—and as the truck rumbled past, I took three big strides and leapt onto the gate. I was up it in four quick moves and launched myself over it, landing hard on the sidewalk in a low crouch before scurrying for cover behind the slow-moving truck and rushing across the street in its dusty wake.
I dove behind a parked car about a dozen cars down from the maroon sedan and paused there to catch my breath, then I peeked out. I could see the guy in the passenger seat, in profile. He was looking dead ahead, toward the gate. I pulled out my gun and darted out, hugging the cars and ducking from one to another in quick, stealthy bursts. I tried to minimize the risk of being spotted by timing my moves to coincide with trucks rolling past, knowing the eyes in the maroon sedan would be distracted by them when they weren’t otherwise fixated on the gate, waiting for me to reappear.
I paused about five cars away, where I got a decent view of the guy riding shotgun. He had a shaved head with what appeared to be a flame-like tattoo pattern running along its side, above his ear, and was wearing metal-framed shades. He was just sitting there, smoking in silence with his elbow on the windowsill and his gaze locked on the warehouse’s entrance. Although I hadn’t seen the tattoo under the cap he wore at the hotel, I recognized him now—he was one of the three hard-asses who’d come up in the elevator, the guy I’d slammed into in the lobby.
I couldn’t really see the other guy’s face.
My entire body tightened up in anticipation and I nipped out again. With my gun hand leading the way, I tucked in behind the car that was parked closest to theirs. There was an empty spot between them. I crouched low, steeled myself with a couple of deep inhales, and, with another truck passing, I scurried fast and silent around the back of the car and sprang up alongside the sedan’s passenger side with my gun barrel about four feet away from Flamehead’s cheek.
“Hands on the roof where I can see ’em. Both of you, right now.”
They both flinched and spun around to face me, stone-faced behind their shades.
“Do it.”
To press my point, I flicked my gun to the left and aimed it just inches from Flamehead’s elaborate skull and let off a quick round into the rear window as a warning, blowing up the tempered glass and showering them with its granules.
I swung the gun right back into Flamehead’s face.
“Okay, okay,” he grumbled as both his hands shot up and reached for the top of the window frame.
I saw a stir deeper in the car as the driver twisted around, his face locked with angry resolve as his right hand dived for something—the grip of a gun sticking out by his waist. I didn’t have time to shout out another warning and just took my shot.
The guy let out a loud yelp and screamed out “Fuuuck!” as his left hand flew up to the bloodied hole in his shoulder that my round had punched.
“You fucking nuts, man?” Flamehead moaned, his eyes flicking from his groaning friend to me and back.
“I’m not screwing around,” I yelled back. “Now give me those hands and get out of the fucking car.”
I watched intently as the passenger door swung open and Flamehead climbed out of the car, slowly, with his arms up. He was wearing a black Windbreaker over a dark T-shirt, baggy jeans, and a bulky pair of work boots. I couldn’t tell if he was carrying or not.
“You got a weapon?” I asked, bending down a bit so I could keep an eye on the guy behind the wheel.
“Yeah,” Flamehead grunted. “Belt holster.”
“Two fingers. Easy. On the ground.”
He nodded grudgingly, then pulled an automatic out and set it down by his feet.
“Now kick it under the car. Gently.”
He did so.
“Okay. I want both hands on the roof and your legs spread,” I ordered him, then turned my attention to the driver. “You, out.”
I took a few steps back and edged around the front of the car so I could keep an eye on the driver. I held my Browning in my right hand while my left hand fished out my phone.
“I’ve got them,” I told Villaverde. “Send in the troops.”
The driver was cursing and groaning his way out of the car. He was shorter and stockier than Flamehead and sported a soul patch—a smidgen of beard beneath his lower lip—and long, straight hair that he wore tied back. He rounded the door to face me and looked mad as hell as he scowled at me before spitting at the ground.
I held his glare and told him, “Easy, tiger. I think one hole’s enough for today, what do you say?” I nodded at the gun on his belt. “Two fingers. You know the drill.”
He spat again, then did it.