Gangster's Court Page 23

  She adjusted the shotgun and resumed breathing. “I think I hear something,” she said in a barely audible whisper, “they might be in the hall. You’re on speaker.”

  Jo focused her eyes at the tiny space between the floor and the door, thinking she saw shadows passing by. She could feel the presence of people in the hall. How was that possible if she couldn’t see, smell, hear, touch, or taste them?

  She heard a sound. Someone was pushing against the door handle. Holy shit. A faint scraping sound could be heard. They’re picking the bedroom door.

  “The police are on their way,” Jo yelled out. “You better leave.”

  Complete silence. The scraping at the lock stopped. Jo blinked a bead of sweat out of her eye. Was someone even there or was she imagining it? With the complete silence dragging on for seconds, Jo leaned forward and wiped her forehead on a blanket. She then whipped her head up and focused on the door.

  Complete silence in the hall. No one’s there, right? Jo stood, her knee cracking from the movement. Her eyes seemed to be playing a trick on her, the handle of the door was turning downward. Is it moving?

  “Leave now!” she commanded.

  The door handle was at an angle, just a half inch from being parallel to the floor. Could it have always been off?

  She put her finger inside the trigger guard. She was ready to fire if that door opened. It can’t be Dzuy, he’s too far away. Can’t be Mom, Dad, or Jami. Could Dzuy’s family be here? They wouldn’t pick a lock or cover the peephole.

  The handle dipped down and the door swung open towards her. Jo’s finger squeezed the trigger. Her shoulder jerked back. Her ears walloped from the blast. The door swung closed with a fist-sized hole to the left of the handle.

  She tucked the shotgun taut to her shoulder and squeezed again. Another fist-sized hole appeared to the left and below the first. Jo crouched down behind the bed, hyperventilating and trying to think of how many shots she had left. Five shells. I have three left.

  Jo’s train of thought was interrupted when she heard a loud pop come from the hallway. Then another. Followed by the sounds of broken glass behind her. Jo looked up at the window with confusion. She focused back on the door and saw two small holes were in it. They were shooting back at her and hit the window.

  She ducked down behind the mattress, keeping her hands and shotgun on the bed, and listened intently. Is the door open? Are they there? She popped her head up; the door was closed.

  Her heart thundered with fear. She stayed crouched down and scooted around the bed. She popped up enough to look through her holes in the door but didn’t see anyone. She duck-walked closer, shotgun firm against her shoulder, pointing it towards the door.

  She stared out the lower hole as she duck-walked past the door. She rose to change her angle and saw blood on the hallway floor. She scooted just passed the door, took her left hand off the shotgun, strained to hold it steady, and re-locked the door. She grabbed the shotgun with both hands and scooted to the corner of the room.

  With her shotgun trained on the door, she sat on the floor and tried to calm herself. They ran. I got one and they ran. Jo nodded, trying to convince herself. The police will be here soon.

  Jo stiffened, her mind racing as seconds dragged into minutes. Her arms ached from holding the shotgun at the ready. When she couldn’t hold it any longer, she pointed it down at the ground. A tiny sigh of relief escaped as she extended her arms.

  With fear overcoming her again, she jerked the shotgun back to the ready. Where are the damn cops?

  Jo crouched down, duck-walked to the holes in the door, and peeked through. She saw a few drops and smears of blood on the floor, nothing else. She backed up behind the bed near the phone and used the bed to support her left arm and the shotgun.

  “I think they’re gone,” Jo whispered. “You’re still on speaker. Are the police close?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” a whisper came from her phone. “Officers are gathering at the scene right now.”

  “Gathering?” Jo whispered.

  “Yes, they’ll be with you soon.”

  Jo looked up at the ceiling, a sprinkler was in the corner. The gang just burned down a taco shop and tire place. If they tried to light the condo up, she hoped it would be enough to keep her safe until the firefighters arrived. “Please ask them to hurry,” Jo whispered.

  “Just hold on a little longer,” the voice pleaded with her.

  What else can I do? Jo tucked the shotgun against her shoulder again in frustration.

  Jo’s thighs ached from squatting so long; she put one knee on the ground for support. How long has it been? She leaned forward and glanced at her sideways phone, eleven minutes and counting.

  * * *

  “Holy crap,” Browning said, rubbing his fingers inside a hole in Dzuy’s bedroom door. “Good work.”

  “Thanks,” Jo said, sitting on the bed with the comfort of Dzuy’s arm around her.

  “Where were you?” Browning asked Dzuy.

  Jo glanced around the crowd in the bedroom. Browning’s partner was every bit as tall as Browning was round. Two technicians were in the hall gathering circumstantial evidence. A young Hispanic man with acne, who had identified himself as being on a gang task force, was staring at her.

  “I just went out for a bit. I feel terrible,” Dzuy said with guilt in his voice.

  “Not his fault,” Jo said, making eye contact with Pimples. “What are these guys doing, coming here? What’s going on?”

  Pimples broke eye contact. Looking down at the bed, he said, “DB, Devil’s Bullet, was high up. Real high. Filthy Rose was one of his highest guys. I think they are coming after you for information. If they wanted to kill you, it wouldn’t have been two guys. And they wouldn’t have run.”

  “Not reassuring at all,” Jo leaned into Dzuy a little harder.

  “What do we do?” Dzuy asked.

  “Get El Flaco,” Pimples said. “With him down and Devil’s Bullet down, hope the leadership vacuum shifts their focus to within the organization.”

  Jo closed her eyes. And buy time for Omar to figure this out.

  “You like her plan to do that?” Browning asked Pimples.

  “Yeah. El Flaco’s not a hothead like DB. But he’s aggressive. A hit in jail. Sending two guys to a Judge’s place. Man, he’s real aggressive. I think he’ll bite.” He leaned back against the wall, looking satisfied with his answer. “The real question is whether we can arrest them all peacefully.”

  Killing them all works too. Jo turned to look outside at the approaching night. “Let’s get started then. How long until you’re ready at the house and they can post the bait?”

  “I’ll make a call,” Browning’s partner said. He walked past the technicians and took a long stride over a cone on the ground.

  “Can we have a minute with Detective Browning?” Jo asked Pimples.

  “Sure, I’ll go make a call too,” Pimples said before following Browning’s partner.

  Browning closed the door behind him. “What’s up?”

  “What do you think of Pimples?” Jo asked.

  Browning chuckled at the nickname. “Never met him. Good rep. Seems bright.”

  “Mind stepping out yourself? I want to get a second opinion from someone who might know these guys even better. See if there’s anything else we can do.”

  Browning gave Jo a finger pistol shot. “Good idea.” He opened the door, then paused to turn to Jo. “And great fucking shot.”

  33

  It’s a good plan, but they won’t get El Flaco. Omar stared at the dimly lit blue Greyhound logo atop the small brown and tan building. He scanned the building and surroundings. One homeless person sat out front.

  Omar got out of the Honda, walked across the street to the small bus station, and looked for a schedule. The next bus headed south wouldn’t be leaving until just after midnight, over four hours later. Slim pickings at midnight. Omar crumpled the schedule.

  He walked back across the quiet st
reet to his car and weighed his options. He could try to score speed, something powerful to keep him awake to drive. But he didn’t want to use that shit and didn’t want to risk an arrest. Getting fingerprinted would out him as being alive.

  Where can I find someone that will drive me south so I can sleep? Omar got back in his car. If he could somehow stay awake for another six-hour drive, finding someone at a bus station in Sacramento at two in the morning to drive to San Diego didn’t seem plausible.

  Omar closed his eyes. He clenched his fists, his arms trembled with anger. His eyes opened and he was perfectly still. While he was off the board, Milk, Santiago, Chen, his whole crew, the Asians, and even the businessmen were pieces he could use. He was still in the game, even if not at the game.

  Jo and the cops should take a lot of pieces off the board. Probably not El Flaco, not after Devil’s Bullet went down with his crew. Omar smirked, proud of himself for staying calm in the law office and handling himself.

  What will El Flaco do?

  * * *

  Browning looked at the twelve-man SWAT team sitting on plastic chairs next to windows on the first floor of the large unfurnished two-story home. They’d been at the ready for two hours and looked like they were losing their edge.

  Browning tapped the green plastic table and asked Pimples, “You think they’re coming?”

  Pimples looked up from his phone with a big grin. “I know it.”

  “How?”

  Pimples showed Browning his cell phone. [20 vatos here all night. Just rushed out. To Alpine.]

  “Who texted you that?”

  “My guy at Tacos El G. I had every one of my informants keep an eye and ear open. One just came through.”

  Browning stood, shouting, “We got a tip that twenty guys are headed this way. Time estimate, thirty minutes.” He looked at Pimples with excitement. “Thank you. Any more detail on the number? Twenty? Not forty?”

  Pimples tapped into his phone. “I don’t know how exact his count will be.”

  Browning eased himself back into the green plastic lawn chair that acted as part of the kitchen table set. “We had thirty to forty with El Flaco. Four were arrested for pissing on a car. One arrested at the hospital was linked to breaking into Judge Channing’s house. Twenty headed here seems a little low?”

  The SWAT leader approached Browning and Pimples, wedging his hands under his bulletproof vest. “If the original count was even accurate. What’s the new intel?”

  “About twenty vatos were at Tacos El G, rushed out, guy overheard them say Alpine,” Pimples said, leaning back in his green plastic chair.

  “Where’s Tacos El G?” the SWAT leader asked.

  “National City,” Browning answered. “Adobada tacos there are fantastic.”

  The SWAT leader freed his hands, using one to press a button on the headset wedged under his black helmet. “All teams. We have intel saying arrival expected in thirty minutes. Scout teams – eyes open.”

  Browning tapped on his phone. [Your plan might be working. ETA 30 min.]

  * * *

  Jo clicked the speaker button on her cell phone. “Here, you ask him. You’re now on speaker,” Jo said, tired of relaying messages between Omar on the phone and Dzuy who was laying next to her in bed, staring at his laptop screen.

  “How far out can you zoom?” Omar’s voice came through the speakerphone.

  Jo set the phone next to the Browning shotgun that was laying between them on the hotel bed. They were both under the fluffy white comforter.

  “As far as you want. But without lighting, I won’t get great detail at that distance,” Dzuy said quietly towards the phone.

  “El Flaco won’t know the area. If he goes with his crew, I’ll bet he exits Willows with them, goes onto Alpine Road with them, but will stop before getting to Deer Springs. It’s a back road.”

  “Hold on.” Dzuy tapped his keyboard. “A bit west and north of the house, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Dzuy stared at the drone footage of a rural road. “Following the road, there’s the highway. Locked in above the exit now.”

  Jo peeked at his screen. “Not a lot of traffic at the exit. A car looks like it’s headed North.”

  “Viejas,” Omar answered.

  Jo nodded. The Native American Reservation had a nice casino and resort, it would get visitors even past midnight on a Sunday night. “Your place is out in the boonies.”

  “But close to the highway. It was perfect.”

  “So what are you hoping for?” Dzuy asked.

  “Find out where El Flaco goes if he doesn’t fall into the police trap with the rest of his crew.”

  “Omar, we might have a battery life problem,” Dzuy said. “I need to set this down in ninety minutes.”

  “Okay. Just call me once any cars exit south on Willows.”

  “O-” Dzuy started.

  The phone was quiet.

  “Gotta say it quick before he hangs up on you,” Jo said.

  Dzuy shrugged. “Guess he’s too emotional. Can’t stand to say goodbye to me.”

  Jo chuckled. She reached over to touch Dzuy’s arm. “Thank you.”

  “Stories for our grandkids… Man, will we have them!”

  Jo looked at the shotgun. “Thanks to you, we just might live that long.”

  “Definitely.” Dzuy glanced back at his screen. “Since we’ll be up a while, room service?”

  * * *

  “I’m good up here,” Browning said, rebuffing the SWAT leader’s suggestion that he, his partner, and Pimples go down to the basement.

  “Stay back, don’t get in our way,” the SWAT leader responded, turning to the front door. “Minutes fellas,” he yelled. “No lights. No sounds,” he said into his headset. He took position behind the heavy wood front door.

  Browning watched him listen intently, then strained to hear him say, “Four large black SUVs. Past rear tack point. Wait for Two’s signal.”

  Browning leaned against the kitchen wall. Faint light beams washed into the house. The cars were in the long driveway. They would be in-line with the SWAT team inside the barn. Any second, winches would be triggered and strips of spikes would be pulled across the road.

  The caravan of four moved closer to the house.

  The team leader nodded, whispering, “They’re pulling tacks. Light teams. Ready.”

  Browning swallowed hard, his nerves unsteady because a dozen men with guns were ready to storm this place. Maybe this is better than letting them get into the house. Browning wanted to get more criminal charges against the guys. He fought to let the guys break in for a burglary charge, but SWAT overruled him for safety reasons and he was happy they did.

  The team leader nodded. “Lights. Go,” he whispered into his mic.

  Browning saw bright white light outside. The dirt road was lit up like the infield of a baseball game. He spoke into a microphone, the speakers outside blaring his voice. “This is the police. Exit your vehicles with your hands up.”

  He handed the mic to Pimples, who repeated in Spanish.

  Browning took the mic back. “You are surrounded. Get out of your cars. Hands up.” He handed the mic back to Pimples, who again repeated in Spanish.

  Browning made sure the mic was off. “We got a uniformed officer here to make the command? If so, we got 2800 violations,” Browning joked quietly. He watched a video feed of the outside action.

  The SUV in the back of the pack went in reverse. It jerked as its rear tires ran over the spike strips.

  “Stop! Alto!” Browning commanded.

  The car in front pulled forward, its tires getting punctured by a spike strip.

  The team leader spoke into his headset. “Sharpies, take out tires on middle vehicles.”

  Four gunshots rang out from the roof of the barn.

  “Out of the cars. Hands up. Now,” Browning commanded, handing the mic back to Pimples, who repeated the same order.

  Four doors on the first SUV flung open. Two me
n scurried behind the car and four took cover behind each car door. They fired pistol shots at the giant spot lights above the house and barn.

  “Green light,” the team leader said.

  Deeper sounding rifle shots rang from the rooftops. The first six vatos all fell to the ground, not one of their shots connected with a light or officer. They were firing pistols, blind, against rifles. It wasn’t a fair fight.

  Felony murder charges for all that survive. Browning smiled. “Come out of your cars. Unarmed. Hands up. Now. We will not shoot if you surrender.” He handed the mic to Pimples.

  The three other car’s doors flung open and men poured out of them, running off the dirt road and into the brush.

  “They’re running,” Browning called into his mic. They won’t get far…

  * * *

  Dzuy zoomed out extremely wide. “There’s a lot of light at your house, want me to go take a look?”

  “No, stay with the last car, gotta be El Flaco,” Omar instructed over the speakerphone.

  “Shit,” Dzuy jerked at the joystick while looking at the screen.

  “What?” Omar asked.

  “A light’s coming in at an angle, chopper. I’m pulling higher.” Dzuy focused intently on his computer screen.

  “Don’t lose him. I need to know where he goes.”

  “Onto Highway 8, going west,” Dzuy said. “Just the one SUV from what I can see. Looks like it’s leaving the other cars behind.”

  Jo looked over at Dzuy’s laptop screen. “Can you keep up?”

  “As long as he stays under ninety. Burns more battery though.”

  Dzuy followed the car for thirty minutes into downtown San Diego. “They are getting out in valet parking at this hotel on F Street.”

  “Who?”

  Dzuy set the joystick aside and tapped at his keyboard. “Getting pictures, will send them to you.”

  “Thanks. Good work.”

  “I need to land this thing. I’m flying the drone over to Milk now, okay?”