Hard Bite (21 page)

"What is it, hon?" Tabitha's voice prods him back to reality. His new-issue cell phone buzzes and flashes. Tabitha clicks on the bedside light and he catches the phone. "Detective Coltson."

An FBI agent says, "I've got Luis Malalinda on the line. Are you ready?"

***

On any midnight, the Golden Bear Humane Shelter is a quiet place, except for a few overnight animals, most of them sedated from recent treatment, asleep or breathing quietly in their cages. Tonight is nothing out of the ordinary, and in half an hour night security will do a drive-by check of the property. Right now all is still. Headlights from a scarred Trans Am Firebird, eight cylinders growling under the hood, light up the parking lot. Cinda steps out with a cage bearing a small, shadowy animal inside. A note taped to the handle reads, "My name is Sid. Please call the police to come and get me." She walks the cage to the front door and sets it down gently before driving away, erased by the night.

Sid sits there for a while. He breathes the fresh air and listens to the sounds of night. He busies himself with a sippy cup of water and an overflowing bowl of chow. An owl hoots, crickets chirp and pairs of eyes glow at him from the bushes. The eyes are attached to feral cats and they are familiar with caged animals showing up on the doorstep of the shelter. Such animals are no good for food, because the cats can't really get at them, but they're great for torture and fun.

In unison the cats stalk across the parking lot and surround Sid's cage. He appears unconcerned and picks at the chow. The cats sit quietly waiting for Sid to pay some respect. When he doesn't, the cat facing Sid's back lashes out with his claws and rakes Sid's tail. In a flash, Sid turns and spits a glob of chow into the cat's eyes. It yowls and backs off. Sid twists the top off his sippy cup and douses the other cats with water. He throw handfuls of chow after them as they take off. They run for yards and then stop and lick themselves off. They reassess the situation. It was a good trick but they're unhurt, except for the one temporarily blinded. And it looks like the monkey's out of ammo.

Sid reassesses too. He reaches his hand out of the cage and runs his sensitive digits over the small combination lock. Knowing Cinda, she has latched the lock but not spun the dial, meaning a quick tug downward will release it. Sid tugs. The lock clicks open.

Three cats, led by a big ole gray tomcat return. Two feet away they hiss and show their teeth. Sid returns the favor and they get to see that his teeth are bigger. But he's locked in a cage, and the big tom has played this game before, knowing that if three surround one, they can get some good clawing in through the bars. He crouches, ready to pounce and extrude his claws. Sid decides it's time to go on offense. He blasts out of the cage and chases the tom across the lot. They zig and zag and turn in circles, but the cat can't lose the monkey. The pair are evenly matched for speed. The tom heads for a tree—this is where he loses most non-feline adversaries like dogs, but the monkey is an agile climber. Finally, Sid has him cornered in the highest branch. The tom gives a ferocious, open-fanged snarl and Sid jumps hard on the branch. The tom slips a bit, but he's still hanging solidly by fifteen claws. Sid grabs his tail and wrenches him clean off the branch, gives him a wallop against the tree trunk and then lets go—15 feet down with a heavy landing. Ten pounds of yowling, spitting cat lands heavily on the pavement. The cats below take off at top speed as the tom shakes himself and limps away, mewling.

When they are well gone, Sid clambers down from the tree, scampers back across the lot and crawls back in his cage. He resets the lock. He waits for what's next.

***

Among carnales, word spreads quickly and the instructions from Luis and Mateo are unexpected. "Take your weapons out of your trucks. Make sure there are no drugs anywhere. Put your women in the trucks and send them to Elysian Park. Make sure they go alone. Wait for what else we going to tell you."

Luis makes his last call and turns to the eight trusted men assembled in front of him. "Here's what's going down. We don't give a shit about a trade. We just want the monkeyman out of High Tower."

He catches the expression on one man's face.

"We had to let everybody think we were stupid enough for a throwdown. Especially cops. Hey, the carnales got free guns out of it. They getting paid."

Luis pulls out a map. "Here are the freeway entrances around the jail. To get to the park, they have to go by one of these checkpoints." He calls out four names. "You guys are snipers." He calls out four more. "You guys are the spotters. Two men to a checkpoint. They will have him in a van, going slow. You can rip the shit out of it with this."

Mateo starts passing out armor-piercing rounds of ammunition.

***

Deputy Gulley appears at my cell. "Come on, you're going somewhere," he whispers.

There's rustling and muttering down the row. A midnight interruption isn't unusual. But still, there's something going on.

"Don't talk, just get in the chair and let's go," he says in a low voice.

I do as told. No explanation. No talking. Gulley wheels me down the row, past the High Tower chorus, who stay silent. Their eyes follow as we pass. No haranguing. No chatter. No commentary, just a weird waiting silence and the creak of my wheels on cement. It's possible this is something routine but the air feels too heavy. I can feel the tension in Gulley, like this is something important. Something big. Like this is what we've all been waiting for.

***

In the loading bay, the air smells fresh and sweet, compared to inside. A handicap van waits, flanked by two unmarked vans. Guys in bullet-proof vests mill next to them with helmets under their arms, chinstraps swinging. The warrior class, updated to AD. It's thrilling to observe. Every one has waist-holsters with Sig-Sauer pistols. Others check submachine guns, MP5s maybe. I pull up some mental trivia—both weapons can use interchangeable 9 millimeter ammo. Thinking ahead, perhaps.

Detective Leone emerges from the group with a familiar carry-cage in her hand. "Look who turned himself in," she says to me. Sid shrieks and hugs the bars.

"Wow," I say, trying to act surprised, which isn't hard under the circumstances. "Hi Sid, hi boy."

"I hear they got Marcie," I say to Leone.

"That's what this is about," she answers.

I know better than to ask for details. They want to keep me in the dark, that's okay. If I wasn't of any use, Coltson and Leone wouldn't have me present. It's not like they're filling me in on all the details, but I can guess what's going on. The tactical unit is an armed escort for Sid and me. I have no worries that we're protected from the Malalindas. It's what happens after that concerns me.

Detective Coltson can be seen among the milling personnel—a moment to study him unobserved. I feel like calling out something from Sun Tzu's chapter nineteen on war maneuvers.
Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night…
But if I did call that out, it might make me sound like a crazy person and I don't need to throw fuel on that fire.

Leone's hands grip my chair firmly from behind and I'm pushed into the handicap van. My chair locks onto the floor and Sid's cage is strapped securely beside me. After a few seconds, the van rumbles to life and the other vehicles start up. I can't see outside but I figure one is probably leading us while the others follow.

The van chugs around a few corners and although I can't see outside, I can tell by the direction that we're on Mission, probably around Galardo, heading for the 5 on-ramp. Junk auto parts places, radiators, foreign and domestic, piled high. Aztec Auto, El Jefe, meaning "the boss" or Fidel Castro however you want to translate it—ha! Across the street is Maya's Auto Glass with Catholic icons painted on the gate in brick red and lime green. Farther down is Mission Auto Sound; a corrugated metal roof with the name painted on—white letters waving over the mottled grey. Stereos, alarms, window tint; this is where the thieves send you. They break your glass, steal your radio, and you end up there.

The van gears down, slows and stops. We must be waiting for the on-ramp light.

I lean forward to get a better look at Sid. His hand sticks out of the carrier, fondles the swinging lock, and he leers at me. Oh shit, it's the same padlock we always use on that cage and by now Sid has seen it locked and unlocked several times. "I know what you're up to pal," I grin conspiratorially back at him. It's okay. If he gets out he's still going to be inside the van.

We have what I know is probably one of our last moments together. I want to keep it light as his bright little eyes look right into mine so full of piss and vinegar. I always want to remember him just like this. The night is quiet outside, the van idles comfortingly and an armor-piercing bullet tears cleanly through the west side of the van, sears across the back of my neck, and blows a hole out the other side.

My neck is on fire, and the last thing I see is Sid leap through the jagged hole, out of the van. We accelerate out of there, tires howling, ammo punching the van. Up front, Coltson screams some kind of code number as the tactical escort behind us unloads.

Over the shells pounding, Coltson calls my name. "HOLD ON," he shouts. A red haze drips into my eyes, and there's the outline of a black hood, and a scythe reaching. Moonlight glints off the blade, and the silvery steel gets whiter and brighter, the shouts and submachine-gun rounds fade, farther and farther, until everything just disap—

***

Luis Malalinda hears the firefight over his cell phone and rips duct tape from Marcie Blattlatch. With a quick shove to the back, she stumbles into the moonlit night.

"Run, don't look back," he commands.

A giant suspension bridge looms in the black overhead. Marcie can smell seawater.
San Pedro or Long Beach
flickers through her senses, but she has no idea of direction. She's thirstier than ever before in her life, and her bare feet glow, pale as fish bellies against the dark pavement.

"Get moving," comes the voice behind her again. She starts jogging blindly away from the sound, knowing salvation lies in getting to a public place, and the only place public in this dockside wasteland is the bridge.

She scrambles up a weedy incline to a thigh-high barrier, throws one leg over, waving her arms at the headlights of an oncoming car. High beams bathe her face and rumpled clothing—wide eyes sparkling in the halogen glare. The car passes but another is on the way. She knows the cars won't stop, but they'll call 911 on their cell phones and report a wild-eyed woman on the Vincent Thomas Bridge.

In less than three minutes, sirens scream in the distance, flashing white, red and blue.

***

Doug is on the floor of the van, the weight of Leone's body slumped over him. She groans.

"Leone! You hit?"

She lifts off of him. "I'm okay." She sits up and gives him a hand off the floor.

Doug looks out the shattered windshield. The tactical unit van in front looks untouched, and the one behind got the advantage real quick. Only the handicap van is pocked with shot. Men from the other vehicles unfold from their spots, cautiously looking around.

"Everybody alright?" Doug shouts. "Any men down?"

"Okay here Detective."

"No damage in backup. How 'bout you?"

"O'Hearn's bleeding!"

"My arm. Think it got grazed."

"Roll call."

The men, ten in all, shout their names.

"All accounted for," Doug shouts back. He shoulders open the door of the van.

Two men lie dead on the tiny hill beside the on-ramp. One of them, naked to the waist, lies upside-down; he must have twisted and fallen after getting tapped in the head. The man hangs like an inverted Christ, arms splayed wide, the sling of the rifle caught on his arm. To Doug, the tats on the sniper look familiar. The name
San Judas Todeo
is inked over his collarbones. Beneath is a full-chest tattoo of a saint holding a club. Doug remembers something from a distant file.
Patron saint of lost causes.
The tats belong to Mateo Malalinda. Beside Mateo is his spotter.

"Doug, do you read me?" The Captain's voice comes over the van's radio.

"Yes, Captain, I read you."

"Backup is on the way. What happened?"

"Ambushed by a sniper at the on-ramp, sir."

"Are you hurt?"

"No sir. Two guys dead. One looks like Mateo Malalinda to me. Our side got a man down in the van behind."

"How the hell did they know which ramp to stake?"