Once Upon A Wish : Book One (9 page)
Read Once Upon A Wish : Book One Online
Authors: Richard Poche
Tags: #noir, #noir crime, #hit men, #noir crime thriller, #drug cartel fiction, #edge of your seat thrillers, #gripping thriller, #hit man book, #hit man series
He parked outside Nestor's village
apartment in 98th and San Leandro Avenue. He could hear the
bustling sound of stereos playing 1980s rap. Nestor surmised that
no one in the neighborhood would dare complain about the
noise.
Nestor spotted Fast Eddie’s apartment at
the end of the second floor hall. A lean Doberman was chained to a
railing outside the door. Mean and fierce, it barked at nothing in
particular.
Nestor watched some hit man documentaries
with Hernan and decided this would look like an old school Chicago
gangland shooting. There would be a spray of gunfire and collateral
damage would be inevitable. His thoughts sped up as to what route
to take when they got away. He thought about when they should take
the shot: at the point of which the exited their vehicle or when
they when be leaving the club. His heart rate quickened. Cisneros
was right. Violence could be a salvation of sorts.
He went on-line and found Fast Eddie’s
Facebook profile. His target would post pictures from a place
called “Darcy's,” a dance hangout joint on Jack London Square. The
posts were dated real time and Nestor could see that all of his
Friday nights were spent there.
Fast Eddie would have guards with him, and
shooting him up in the club like they did in Chicago seemed a bit
too messy. There would be too many witnesses and too little options
for a quick exit.
Nestor scoped out the topography around
Darcy’s. He liked the parking lot. They could get things done at
long range.
Cisneros' gift of the new rifle would be
very useful.
apartment. He found the creepy quiet of her apartment building to
be a stark contrast to the cacophony of noise that surrounded Fast
Eddie’s place. He could imagine the police investigators going in
and out of the room. Questioning an inconsolable old woman who hid
her head in the sand at her granddaughter’s lifestyle. They would
tell her that questions would be uncomfortable but necessary
because they were only trying to help.
He looked at his watch. Midnight. The
lights were still on in Ana's apartment. Maybe the old lady could
not sleep as she waited for a call from a police detective that
would never come.
Nestor took out his wallet and fingered the
picture of his mother. He thought of the little boy and how he
would face life without a parent. He would go to school and sing
songs in class. Play dodge ball and run with the other kids. But
deep down inside, he would be numb. Nestor realized that there were
certain things you cannot recover from. The loss of a parent may
not kill you physically. Just the person that you used to be. Or
that you could have become.
The light inside Ana's apartment window
shut off. The door opened and out stepped young Antonio.
He hung by the railing of the apartment,
looking down, staring down at the streets. Nestor thought about how
many times the young boy must have seen his Mom come home with her
make-up smeared. With dried mascara tears on her cheeks and her
hair mussed up. He wondered how long it would take before the boy
looked back on his past and realized the kind of mother he
had.
Nestor got out of his car. He looked over
at the boy and noticed how much different he looked from when he
first saw him.
The boy’s face looked blank. He folded his
arms on the railing and laid his head on his tiny forearms.
He waited for his mother to come home.
Nestor looked at his Mom's picture and
folded it back into his wallet.
rattled the windows of Nestor's truck.
The air around the place seemed as tense as
Nestor. He hated bars and dance clubs. With his facial scar and
rat-like features, he could never fit in. Not even if he had money
to toss around.
Darcy’s stood at the end of the Jack London
Square strip and overlooked the estuary. A barbershop next to the
club shut down after the owner was robbed and murdered a month
earlier. Next to the barbershop stood an adult video store, long
abandoned. A spray-painted penis decorated its shuttered
doors.
Nestor checked his watch then sat up in
attention as a black Infiniti glided into the lot.
parking lights clipped off. His gun dangled from his long arm as he
massaged the handle with his thumb. A nervous twitch. Then he
checked his own clip and inserted it back in slowly, as if it were
a sacramental gesture.
“This scumbag may have more than one woman
with him,” Nestor said. “Plus the driver.”
They watched as the driver stepped out of
the vehicle. He opened up the rear passenger side door.
“We have to take out his entire entourage.
The driver. The girls. I don't care if he has a puppy dog in
there.”
“What if there is a kid?”
Nestor said nothing as he watched a Puerto
Rican woman with long blonde curls exit the vehicle. He could smell
her perfume twenty yards away. She wore a tight fuchsia dress,
matching the streaks of pink she had in her hair.
Fast Eddie exited after her. Wearing a
three-piece suit with a paisley necktie, he pinched the girl's butt
as she scooted away from him. “Baby girl got booty,” he said.
Nestor slammed on the gas and the tires
squealed forward. It took less than three seconds for them to reach
the target. Nestor put the car in park as Hernan threw his door
open.
Hernan's first shot hit dead center of Fast
Eddie's forehead. The ex-con went down with a thud.
Racing over to his victim’s prone body,
Hernan’s shadow came over the man like a grim reaper. He shot him
two more times in the heart. Nestor’s bullet ripped open the side
of the chauffeur’s temple. He went down in a heap, his hand stuck
in his coat pocket as he reached for his gun. Nestor shot him in
the head once more for good measure.
The Puerto Rican girl stood frozen taking
it all in. Then she screamed so long and loud the music inside the
club stopped.
Nestor heard the crackle of the gun before
he felt the searing pain of a bullet go through his shoulder.
“FBI!”
Nestor dropped to the ground and rolled
toward the truck. He heard the men running toward him. Then he
heard Hernan return fire.
His first shot nailed the agent who shot
Nestor. His partner ducked for cover.
“Run!” Nestor commanded.
“No,” Hernan fired again at the remaining
agent. The bullet blasted a window and the glass cascaded down on
his pursuer.
“Come on!” Nestor got up and pushed Hernan
forward. They sprinted toward the street and turned the corner
before they heard the sirens.
People emerged from the club in
open-mouthed shock. One of the patrons took out his cell phone and
filmed the blue-vested agent pounding on his partner's chest.
“Vince!” the FBI agent screamed.
Nestor and Hernan ran down the street as
fast as they could. One, two, and then three blocks down. They
stayed on the main strip running through red lights and causing
cars to careen sideways.
“Come on,” Nestor instructed.
Wanting to get on a less populated street,
they turned a corner and ran down a dark alley.
That's when they saw her. The blonde-haired
girl with pink streaks, squatting in the corner.
She stood up, scared and shocked that they
found her.
Nestor struggled to catch his breath and
leaned his back against the wall. Hernan pointed his gun at the
girl. Mascara tears scrawled down her cheeks.
“My parents are lawyers,” she stammered.
“Both of them. They could help you.”
“Shut up,” Nestor wheezed at the woman. She
spoke with a bearing that made him think she came from an educated
background. Probably got involved in drugs and her rebellious
spirit carried her into the armpit of East Oakland.
reflecting off one of the storefront windows in front of the alley.
Hernan followed the girl's eye-line then put his hand over her
mouth.
The young woman bit into his fingers and
sprinted away “Hey!” she called. “Over here!”
“Come on!” Nestor climbed over the wooden
fence.
Hernan waited for a moment then aimed his
pistol at the woman. Nestor could only watch as he pulled the
trigger.
The girl fell face first down on the
concrete before she reached the end of the alley.
Hernan hopped the fence and ran.
They crossed through a backyard and dogs
barked. Sprinting past a chained pit bull, they hopped another
fence and raced toward the train tracks.
Away from the streetlights, they cloaked
themselves in the darkness. Their running feet dredged up broken
glass, McDonald’s wrappers and used condoms. They didn’t stop until
they could hear their wheezing breath over the fading sirens.
wound.
“It just grazed me,” Nestor said, punching
his own thigh in frustration. “Why didn’t we see those FBI guys!
Fuck!”
A siren blared as a police car raced by the
apartment outside. Hernan ran to the window with his pistol
cocked.
“The sirens would alert us so they wouldn’t
use them if they were coming for us,” Nestor flipped on the TV
remote. “They'd come in silent and deadly.”
The TV report showed a composite drawing of
both Nestor and Hernan.
“Police are looking for these two men. One
about five foot eight with a slender build in his mid-forties. The
other is five ten to six foot with a slender build in his early to
mid-twenties.”
“Doesn't look anything like us,” Hernan
said.
“You're complaining?”
The sound of more sirens echoed
outside.
“I can't live like this anymore,” Hernan
said as he wiped away paranoid beads of sweat from his
forehead.
Nestor didn't respond. He stared at the TV
commercial in silence.
“What if Cisneros knew about the FBI?”
Hernan asked.
“I doubt it,” Nestor said, shaking his
head. “If you are thinking he set us up, I doubt that too.”
“I think it is a sign,” Hernan said. “God
wants us to do something else. To escape.”
“We can't just resign like we're working at
Taco Bell,” Nestor snapped. “We have to kill him. He won’t just let
us go.”
“Okay,” Hernan said.
The news report came back on.
“Today, restaurateur Ignacio Cisneros was
arrested on drug charges today at his restaurant in East Oakland.
Authorities say that Cisneros had transnational gang ties to the
Mexican drug cartel.”
The television broadcast showed a tall,
sharp dressed man addressing reporters.
“Today is an historic day for the city of
Oakland,” the television showed his name as Frank Nickles. “Our
streets are safer now that vermin like Cisneros are now longer
peddling drugs to our young people. This is step one in our
campaign to make Oakland safe again. We started at the top of the
food chain. And we’ll work our way down. The only people who aren’t
safe are the drug dealers.”
Nickles looked directly into the camera.
“You know who you are.”
“Great,” Nestor said as he rose to his
feet. “Now what are we going to do for money?”
out to the duck pond in silence.
Hernan tossed the bread to the ducks.
“It might not be so bad,” Hernan said. “As
long as I have time to come here, I’ll be okay.”
Nestor shook his head. He walked away,
staring at the expensive homes in the distance.
A woman in her early sixties walked up from
the trail onto the grass where Hernan stood.
from afar as he lit a cigarette.
“I was told you guys came out here early,”
she said.
“What?” Hernan looked confused.
“It's really cold out here,” she said,
rubbing her arms.
Hernan shrugged his shoulders. “Cold
doesn't bother me.”
“Ice in your veins,” she said. “That always
helps.”
Nestor noticed that a man in a three-piece
suit watching him from about thirty feet away. He wore dark
sunglasses but Nestor could spot a bodyguard when he saw one. The
old woman noticed his suspicion and waved for him to come
over.
“Yes?” Nestor asked.
“They call me Miss Sosa,” she said. “We
have a mutual acquaintance in Ignacio Cisneros.”
Hernan looked at Nestor.
“How can we help you?” Nestor asked.
“I was hoping we could talk,” Sosa pointed
to a green Escalade parked in the lot. “In private.”
Senora Sosa poured a glass of Cabernet. She
handed it to Nestor.
“I know you don't drink,” she said to
Hernan. “That's a good thing. You need a steady hand.”
apartment in 98th and San Leandro Avenue. He could hear the
bustling sound of stereos playing 1980s rap. Nestor surmised that
no one in the neighborhood would dare complain about the
noise.
Nestor spotted Fast Eddie’s apartment at
the end of the second floor hall. A lean Doberman was chained to a
railing outside the door. Mean and fierce, it barked at nothing in
particular.
Nestor watched some hit man documentaries
with Hernan and decided this would look like an old school Chicago
gangland shooting. There would be a spray of gunfire and collateral
damage would be inevitable. His thoughts sped up as to what route
to take when they got away. He thought about when they should take
the shot: at the point of which the exited their vehicle or when
they when be leaving the club. His heart rate quickened. Cisneros
was right. Violence could be a salvation of sorts.
He went on-line and found Fast Eddie’s
Facebook profile. His target would post pictures from a place
called “Darcy's,” a dance hangout joint on Jack London Square. The
posts were dated real time and Nestor could see that all of his
Friday nights were spent there.
Fast Eddie would have guards with him, and
shooting him up in the club like they did in Chicago seemed a bit
too messy. There would be too many witnesses and too little options
for a quick exit.
Nestor scoped out the topography around
Darcy’s. He liked the parking lot. They could get things done at
long range.
Cisneros' gift of the new rifle would be
very useful.
apartment. He found the creepy quiet of her apartment building to
be a stark contrast to the cacophony of noise that surrounded Fast
Eddie’s place. He could imagine the police investigators going in
and out of the room. Questioning an inconsolable old woman who hid
her head in the sand at her granddaughter’s lifestyle. They would
tell her that questions would be uncomfortable but necessary
because they were only trying to help.
He looked at his watch. Midnight. The
lights were still on in Ana's apartment. Maybe the old lady could
not sleep as she waited for a call from a police detective that
would never come.
Nestor took out his wallet and fingered the
picture of his mother. He thought of the little boy and how he
would face life without a parent. He would go to school and sing
songs in class. Play dodge ball and run with the other kids. But
deep down inside, he would be numb. Nestor realized that there were
certain things you cannot recover from. The loss of a parent may
not kill you physically. Just the person that you used to be. Or
that you could have become.
The light inside Ana's apartment window
shut off. The door opened and out stepped young Antonio.
He hung by the railing of the apartment,
looking down, staring down at the streets. Nestor thought about how
many times the young boy must have seen his Mom come home with her
make-up smeared. With dried mascara tears on her cheeks and her
hair mussed up. He wondered how long it would take before the boy
looked back on his past and realized the kind of mother he
had.
Nestor got out of his car. He looked over
at the boy and noticed how much different he looked from when he
first saw him.
The boy’s face looked blank. He folded his
arms on the railing and laid his head on his tiny forearms.
He waited for his mother to come home.
Nestor looked at his Mom's picture and
folded it back into his wallet.
rattled the windows of Nestor's truck.
The air around the place seemed as tense as
Nestor. He hated bars and dance clubs. With his facial scar and
rat-like features, he could never fit in. Not even if he had money
to toss around.
Darcy’s stood at the end of the Jack London
Square strip and overlooked the estuary. A barbershop next to the
club shut down after the owner was robbed and murdered a month
earlier. Next to the barbershop stood an adult video store, long
abandoned. A spray-painted penis decorated its shuttered
doors.
Nestor checked his watch then sat up in
attention as a black Infiniti glided into the lot.
“There he is,
amigo
.” Nestor took out
his gun and checked the clip. “And taking up two parking spaces
like the entitled asshole that he is.”
parking lights clipped off. His gun dangled from his long arm as he
massaged the handle with his thumb. A nervous twitch. Then he
checked his own clip and inserted it back in slowly, as if it were
a sacramental gesture.
“This scumbag may have more than one woman
with him,” Nestor said. “Plus the driver.”
They watched as the driver stepped out of
the vehicle. He opened up the rear passenger side door.
“We have to take out his entire entourage.
The driver. The girls. I don't care if he has a puppy dog in
there.”
“What if there is a kid?”
Nestor said nothing as he watched a Puerto
Rican woman with long blonde curls exit the vehicle. He could smell
her perfume twenty yards away. She wore a tight fuchsia dress,
matching the streaks of pink she had in her hair.
Fast Eddie exited after her. Wearing a
three-piece suit with a paisley necktie, he pinched the girl's butt
as she scooted away from him. “Baby girl got booty,” he said.
Nestor slammed on the gas and the tires
squealed forward. It took less than three seconds for them to reach
the target. Nestor put the car in park as Hernan threw his door
open.
Hernan's first shot hit dead center of Fast
Eddie's forehead. The ex-con went down with a thud.
Racing over to his victim’s prone body,
Hernan’s shadow came over the man like a grim reaper. He shot him
two more times in the heart. Nestor’s bullet ripped open the side
of the chauffeur’s temple. He went down in a heap, his hand stuck
in his coat pocket as he reached for his gun. Nestor shot him in
the head once more for good measure.
The Puerto Rican girl stood frozen taking
it all in. Then she screamed so long and loud the music inside the
club stopped.
Nestor heard the crackle of the gun before
he felt the searing pain of a bullet go through his shoulder.
“FBI!”
Nestor dropped to the ground and rolled
toward the truck. He heard the men running toward him. Then he
heard Hernan return fire.
His first shot nailed the agent who shot
Nestor. His partner ducked for cover.
“Run!” Nestor commanded.
“No,” Hernan fired again at the remaining
agent. The bullet blasted a window and the glass cascaded down on
his pursuer.
“Come on!” Nestor got up and pushed Hernan
forward. They sprinted toward the street and turned the corner
before they heard the sirens.
People emerged from the club in
open-mouthed shock. One of the patrons took out his cell phone and
filmed the blue-vested agent pounding on his partner's chest.
“Vince!” the FBI agent screamed.
Nestor and Hernan ran down the street as
fast as they could. One, two, and then three blocks down. They
stayed on the main strip running through red lights and causing
cars to careen sideways.
“Come on,” Nestor instructed.
Wanting to get on a less populated street,
they turned a corner and ran down a dark alley.
That's when they saw her. The blonde-haired
girl with pink streaks, squatting in the corner.
She stood up, scared and shocked that they
found her.
Nestor struggled to catch his breath and
leaned his back against the wall. Hernan pointed his gun at the
girl. Mascara tears scrawled down her cheeks.
“My parents are lawyers,” she stammered.
“Both of them. They could help you.”
“Shut up,” Nestor wheezed at the woman. She
spoke with a bearing that made him think she came from an educated
background. Probably got involved in drugs and her rebellious
spirit carried her into the armpit of East Oakland.
“
I can help you guys!” the
woman snapped, now taking trying to take a tone of superiority. “Do
you understand English? How fresh over the fence are
you?”
reflecting off one of the storefront windows in front of the alley.
Hernan followed the girl's eye-line then put his hand over her
mouth.
The young woman bit into his fingers and
sprinted away “Hey!” she called. “Over here!”
“Come on!” Nestor climbed over the wooden
fence.
Hernan waited for a moment then aimed his
pistol at the woman. Nestor could only watch as he pulled the
trigger.
The girl fell face first down on the
concrete before she reached the end of the alley.
Hernan hopped the fence and ran.
They crossed through a backyard and dogs
barked. Sprinting past a chained pit bull, they hopped another
fence and raced toward the train tracks.
Away from the streetlights, they cloaked
themselves in the darkness. Their running feet dredged up broken
glass, McDonald’s wrappers and used condoms. They didn’t stop until
they could hear their wheezing breath over the fading sirens.
wound.
“It just grazed me,” Nestor said, punching
his own thigh in frustration. “Why didn’t we see those FBI guys!
Fuck!”
A siren blared as a police car raced by the
apartment outside. Hernan ran to the window with his pistol
cocked.
“The sirens would alert us so they wouldn’t
use them if they were coming for us,” Nestor flipped on the TV
remote. “They'd come in silent and deadly.”
The TV report showed a composite drawing of
both Nestor and Hernan.
“Police are looking for these two men. One
about five foot eight with a slender build in his mid-forties. The
other is five ten to six foot with a slender build in his early to
mid-twenties.”
“Doesn't look anything like us,” Hernan
said.
“You're complaining?”
The sound of more sirens echoed
outside.
“I can't live like this anymore,” Hernan
said as he wiped away paranoid beads of sweat from his
forehead.
Nestor didn't respond. He stared at the TV
commercial in silence.
“What if Cisneros knew about the FBI?”
Hernan asked.
“I doubt it,” Nestor said, shaking his
head. “If you are thinking he set us up, I doubt that too.”
“I think it is a sign,” Hernan said. “God
wants us to do something else. To escape.”
“We can't just resign like we're working at
Taco Bell,” Nestor snapped. “We have to kill him. He won’t just let
us go.”
“Okay,” Hernan said.
The news report came back on.
“Today, restaurateur Ignacio Cisneros was
arrested on drug charges today at his restaurant in East Oakland.
Authorities say that Cisneros had transnational gang ties to the
Mexican drug cartel.”
The television broadcast showed a tall,
sharp dressed man addressing reporters.
“Today is an historic day for the city of
Oakland,” the television showed his name as Frank Nickles. “Our
streets are safer now that vermin like Cisneros are now longer
peddling drugs to our young people. This is step one in our
campaign to make Oakland safe again. We started at the top of the
food chain. And we’ll work our way down. The only people who aren’t
safe are the drug dealers.”
Nickles looked directly into the camera.
“You know who you are.”
“Great,” Nestor said as he rose to his
feet. “Now what are we going to do for money?”
out to the duck pond in silence.
Hernan tossed the bread to the ducks.
“It might not be so bad,” Hernan said. “As
long as I have time to come here, I’ll be okay.”
Nestor shook his head. He walked away,
staring at the expensive homes in the distance.
A woman in her early sixties walked up from
the trail onto the grass where Hernan stood.
“
Hola
,” she said in a heavy Mexican
accent.
from afar as he lit a cigarette.
“I was told you guys came out here early,”
she said.
“What?” Hernan looked confused.
“It's really cold out here,” she said,
rubbing her arms.
Hernan shrugged his shoulders. “Cold
doesn't bother me.”
“Ice in your veins,” she said. “That always
helps.”
Nestor noticed that a man in a three-piece
suit watching him from about thirty feet away. He wore dark
sunglasses but Nestor could spot a bodyguard when he saw one. The
old woman noticed his suspicion and waved for him to come
over.
“Yes?” Nestor asked.
“They call me Miss Sosa,” she said. “We
have a mutual acquaintance in Ignacio Cisneros.”
Hernan looked at Nestor.
“How can we help you?” Nestor asked.
“I was hoping we could talk,” Sosa pointed
to a green Escalade parked in the lot. “In private.”
Senora Sosa poured a glass of Cabernet. She
handed it to Nestor.
“I know you don't drink,” she said to
Hernan. “That's a good thing. You need a steady hand.”
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