“We’re not going to jump them. I have a gun. Just gimme a minute, would ya?”
“We don’t have that kinda time. Gimme the gun, I’ll do it.”
“No, I got this-”
Drago reached around and, before I could react, he smothered my hand with his big mitts and snatched away the gun. He didn’t hesitate like I would have. He rolled to one side, extended the derringer, and fired right through Roy Boy’s backseat.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The explosion in the confined space sounded like we were in a church bell tower. Slim Jim whipped his head around too fast, banging his broken jaw on the seat’s back headrest. His eyes rolled up and he fell back out of view into the footwell.
The van didn’t waver; we kept on a steady path. Roy Boy didn’t seem affected at all. He hadn’t even acknowledged the gunshot. Maybe the bullet had not penetrated the seat. Robby Wicks and I had been in a shooting where that had happened. The seats, to cut back on the weight, weren’t solid, and had a mesh frame for support made out of cheap steel.
Drago struggled up on his knees. I did the same. He extended his arm, cocked the hammer back a second time, and aimed at the back of Roy Boy’s head. I put my hand on the gun. He lowered it.
Roy Boy looked up in the rearview mirror at us without expression. “You gone and killed me for sure.” A bit of blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. He fell forward and his head hit the steering wheel. The truck veered out of control. I wiggled between the seats.
Too late. The truck went over the curb, peeling off some speed with the minor impact. We crossed two front yards, disrupting shrubs, flowerbeds, and a hedge that all spit out the back behind the truck. We plowed broadside into a lime green Volkswagen Jetta in someone’s driveway and shoved the heap perpendicular.
The crash threw me forward, and then I tumbled backwards and was shoved up against the back doors.
I scrambled like a spider. “Mack? Mack, are you okay?” A light trickle of blood ran out of the corner of his mouth. I checked his pulse, thready, barely there. I crawled to the back doors and opened them to bright sunlight.
A large woman in a muu-muu with frizzy red hair came out the front door at a fast waddle. “What the hell? You crashed into my car. Are you kidding me? My car was parked in my driveway. You totaled my car. My God, you totaled my baby.”
Bold as a biker prospect, she came up and took hold of my arm. I shrugged her away and stumbled to the front driver’s door, opened it, and dragged out Roy Boy. He plopped onto the driveway. I dragged him farther into the yard, out of the path I’d need to extricate the truck from the yard.
The muu-muu woman screamed, “What are you doing? Get him out of my yard. You can’t leave some dead biker in my yard. I’m calling the police.” She put a cordless phone to her ear.
Drago hadn’t killed Roy Boy, like Roy Boy had thought. His chest rose and fell uninhibited. He was far better off than my friend Mack.
The smart move would be to walk away. Muu-muu would have the cops and paramedics here in no time. “In no time” could take too long. I couldn’t risk it. Mack meant too much to me. I had to see this through. By the time the police arrived and then they called paramedics, I could already have him in the hospital being treated.
I got back into the truck, shoved the gearshift into reverse, and gunned the accelerator. The back wheels dug in, spinning up sod and azaleas. Muu-muu woman screamed into the phone. “Now he’s leaving. It’s a hit and run. Hurry. No, wait, okay, I got it. The license plate is-”
I shoved the truck into drive and bounced over the curb into the street. “Drago, are you still with me?”
“I’m here, but I got nothing left, partner. I think I broke my leg.”
“Which way to the closest hospital?”
His voice faded. “I’m not sure exactly where we are-”
“Drago, what’s the name of the hospital?”
“St. Bernadine’s.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Man…you can’t take me to a hospital. They’ll call the police, they’ll violate my parole. I’ll go back in on…on a violation. I gotta get that gold, I gotta get-”
He went silent.
He’d slipped into shock from the multiple gunshot wounds, the beating, all the blood loss, and now the crash where he broke his leg. Even men like Drago had a vulnerability threshold.
I headed south and typed in the hospital’s name on the dashboard GPS. The route popped up and the woman with a calm voice told me what turns to make, told me we had a seven-minute ETA. I planned to cut that in half.
I’d pull into the hospital’s emergency entrance, get a nurse or orderly to come out, and I’d be gone. I’d take off right then. I wanted to stay with Mack, but hospitals attracted cops, and I needed to find Marie. There was too little time.
I fought with the speed. My foot pushed harder on the accelerator, my hand tapped on the steering wheel. I had to continually correct by slowly easing off my foot. Slim Jim groaned and struggled to climb out of the foot well. I stopped for a red signal. I wanted to move. I impatiently tapped faster on the steering wheel.
Slim Jim managed to almost crawl back up in the seat. I leaned over and slugged him right in his broken jaw. He wilted back to whence he had come. The light changed. I hit the gas.
I turned into St. Bernadine’s and followed the signs around to the emergency entrance and stopped.
A black-and-white San Bernardino police patrol unit sat in the slot next to an ambulance. Another unoccupied police unit was parked farther down. No time to consider possible consequences; everyone in the truck needed emergency medical care. I pulled around and backed into the only slot open, ‘Ambulance Only.’ I got out and came around the back. Two cops stood at the back door talking. I said, “Please help me. I have an officer down.” Words that never failed to send chills through any cop who heard it. They ran over. One said, “What happened, who is it?” while the other climbed in.
I took a step back, a little farther away from the truck. “Please hurry,” I said. “The guy on the left is Detective John Mack with Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. The guy in the front seat is one of the Sons of Satan who beat him.”
“This detective is in a bad way-get some help!” the officer inside said.
I took another tentative step backward.
The cop outside reached up to his lapel mic. “Two-Paul-Three, we have an 1199 at the back of St. Bee’s, officer down. We are code four.” He ran into the hospital to get a doctor.
Distant sirens came from all over the city. When an “officer down” went out, everyone dropped what they were doing, no matter what it was, and responded. Nurses and doctors rushed out with gurneys. More cops.
I backed up more and kept going. I’d almost made it to the front end of the truck where I intended to turn and casually walk away, when one of the cops who’d been inside came out said, “Hey, it’s Leon Johnson.”
He was one of the cops who’d stopped me outside the Quick Stop store my first night here. I turned and ran.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The two cops behind me took chase. Their feet slapped pavement. One yelled into his radio, “Four-Paul-Five, foot pursuit behind St. Bee’s, a 187 suspect.”
I ran with everything I had left. My body ached all over from the beating and didn’t want to cooperate. I pushed hard and couldn’t kick it into gear. The air felt too thick to run in.
Dispatch said, “Any officer to assist in Four-Paul-Five’s foot pursuit behind St. Bee.”
The radio behind me came back jammed with cops responding. They had to believe I was the suspect in the officer-down call. The asshole responsible. I had awakened the brotherhood of cops. Every cop in a twenty-five mile radius would be coming: adjoining cities, California Highway Patrol, University Police, and the Sheriff’s Department. They would coordinate and seal off the entire area. I didn’t have one chance in hell.