“Kick it under the car,” I told him. “And I don’t mean all the way to the human torch there.”
He bent down and did as directed—and that’s when Terry decided to make his appearance.
“Ho-ly shit, buddy, you okay?”
My eyes flicked across to track his booming, breathless voice, and I caught a glimpse of him waddling across the wide street with his gun out, his face all sweaty, his fleshy jowls rippling with the ebb and flow of each heavy step—
—and that split-second diversion was enough for the two goons to try to make their break.
They bolted almost simultaneously, like they were joined by some freaky mind-meld, the two of them charging at me while unleashing demonic yells. Flamehead reached me first, coming at me from the left, but I managed to deflect his first punch with my left arm and pound him with a flat strike from my gun hand that landed flat across his nose and upper lip and sent him staggering sideways all rubber-kneed, but the move had left my right side exposed and Soulpatch was on me in a flash, tackling me around the waist and shoving me down to the ground. The Browning and the BlackBerry tumbled out of my hand as I hit the asphalt hard and I lost sight of them, my attention focused on Soulpatch’s left arm, which was flying down for a hammer punch. I caught it with my forearm and swung his arm away before jabbing his bloodied shoulder with my left fist, causing him to wail out in pain—then Terry shouted, “Stop!”
I saw Soulpatch look up and swung my head sideways and caught sight of Terry standing there, about twenty feet away, with his face all scrunched in concentration and his gun out in a two-handed stance, and he yelled again, “I’m warning you!”
I heard Flamehead blurt, “Fuck this,” and flicked my head to my left to see him run off—then Soulpatch sprang off me and onto his feet and tore off after him.
Terry yelled, “Stop!”
And just then, just as I was shouting “Don’t!” he squeezed the trigger, once, twice, then again, three quick, loud bursts that whipped through the air between us.
“Nooo!” I barked as I pushed to my feet, my eyes rocketing away from Terry to look down the road where I saw Flamehead stumble and hit the asphalt like he was a toy that had his power switch flicked off.
I yelled out to Terry, “Stop firing!” my arms out wide and my hands splayed open. His face flooded with confusion, then he nodded, and I added, “Call nine-one-one and get an ambulance down here,” jabbing an angry finger at the fallen man in the middle of the road, then I turned away from him and scanned the ground for my Browning and my phone. I glimpsed the phone with its back off and its battery scattered by an adjacent car, decided they could wait, and tore my eyes across to focus on recovering my gun, which was lying by some weeds at the edge of the sidewalk.
I scooped it up and ran down the street.
Soulpatch had veered off to the right, and I caught sight of him weaving through some parked cars in an adjacent lot as I got to Flamehead, who was just sprawled on the ground, wheezing with labored breathing and barely moving. With all his dark clothing, I couldn’t see where he’d been hit at first, then I saw it, a small hole in his Windbreaker by the base of his right shoulder blade.
I glanced across and saw Soulpatch disappearing behind more cars, and decided I needed to lock him down fast.
Terry was making his way over, his step slow and deflated. I yelled out to him, “Stay with this guy till the ambulance shows up and send the uniforms after me.”
He nodded. “You got it.” And I was off.
I snaked through more parked cars and hurtled into the next lot, past another messy boatyard and a meat warehouse, but I couldn’t see him anymore. The bastard was moving fast, even though he was wounded. I’d only hit him in the shoulder, in an area I knew didn’t have major arteries that would make him bleed out nor, obviously, any vital organs. I knew my slug wasn’t going to slow him down too much, although from the puff of car seat stuffing I’d seen when I’d shot him, I knew the bullet had been a through-and-through, which meant he had two holes in him and he’d be losing blood from both.
I swung my gaze right and left, searching for any sign of him as a cold, hollow space grew in my gut. All around me, I could see a mess of low-rise structures that housed shipping- and auto-related businesses with big yards of scattered equipment and lots of places to hide—or lots of cars to jack. I advanced again, keeping to the same direction I’d seen him heading in, but with each aimless step, the hollow feeling grew like a black hole and consumed my insides with the doomed realization that the bastard was probably gone.
20
“Where are you?” Walker barked into the phone.
“I’m in the Barrio,” Ricky “Scrape” Torres replied. “It’s all gone to shit, man. I’m hit.”
Walker could hear the strain and the desperation in his bike brother’s voice. “What? What the hell happened?”
“The fucker just came out of nowhere and jumped us. One minute he’s behind the gates in the warehouse, next thing you know he’s got his gun in Booster’s face. I was going for my piece and he shot me in the shoulder, man. I’m bleeding bad.”
“What about Booster?”
“He’s down, man. This fucking security guard put one in his back when we made our move. I don’t know if he’s dead or what.”
“Goddamn it,” Walker spat, his veins swelling with fury. “How the fuck did he get the drop on you?”
“I don’t know. We messed up, all right? But I need help here, I’m losing blood, I need someone to fix me up.”
Walker thought for a second, and as he did, he saw the rest of his guys staring at him, concern and anger burning in their eyes. Then his gaze settled on the Mexican, who was also watching him—the goddamn Mexican and his fucking fed from hell. He cursed inwardly at having brought this down on the club, at not having pulled out as soon as he became aware that an FBI agent was involved. He’d been blinded by the easy money he’d been paid for grabbing the others for the Mexican, and he’d had no reason to suspect that this last snatch would turn out to be such a disaster.
Regardless, they were in it now, and he had a man down in the field. And Eli “Wook” Walker always took care of his men.
He asked, “You said you’re in the Barrio?”
“Yeah, I just crossed under the bridge.”
“What, on foot or you driving?”
“On foot, man. The car’s history.”
Walker wasn’t worried about that. It was stolen anyway. “Can you drive?”
“Yeah, I think so. But I need to jack me a ride.”
Walker thought it over quickly, then said, “Okay, get yourself some wheels and head out to the grotto. Think you can make it there?”
“I guess.”
“Do it. I’ll send someone around to sort you out.”
“You gotta do it fast, man,” Scrape pleaded. “I’m wasting here.”
“Just get your ass over there as soon as you can and sit tight. You’ll be fine.”
Walker hung up and found himself facing a wall of questioning stares. Before he could start filling them in, the Mexican spoke up.
“Is there a problem?”
Walker was in no mood to cajole the man. “Yeah, I’d say there’s a fucking problem,” he growled. “I’ve got one man down and another with a slug in his shoulder because of you.”
The Mexican got up from the couch, calmly, and took a step toward Walker, sending a ripple of tension across the room. The rest of the bikers straightened up and inched forward threateningly, clearly ready to rumble, as did Navarro’s two aides.
Navarro stilled his men with a small, calming gesture without even looking at them while studying Walker with a curious smile on his face. “Because of me?”