And Every Man Has to Die

FIVE

Wednesday, July 16th

0507 hours

DeShawn “Dee” Brown sat on the couch, sipping slowly from the bottle of beer. The TV in front of him flickered with images of dancing women, gyrating to a beat that he couldn’t hear because of the mute button. He didn’t care. The sleeping forms that lay twisted and piled on the floor and furniture of his living room needed the quiet and not the pulsating beat of Sir Mix-a-Lot. And DeShawn was more interested in the sweet bitches shaking their asses.

He should be asleep himself, but he’d been up late working on a problem with his little cousin, Ladondra. Of course, no one called her that. To most everyone, she was Dondra, but to Deshawn, she would always be Little La La.

DeShawn shook his head. Poor girl was only fifteen and she went and got herself pregnant. He’d sat with her for hours, listening to her cry and rave about her situation until she finally told him who the swinging dick was. He had worried that she’d crossed the line and found some guy in a rival gang, but she’d stayed true blue. Still, DeShawn wasn’t happy to hear it was Ronnie. The boy was a low-level runner who might make it up to selling shit on the corner someday, if the motherfucker overachieved. There was no way he could take care of DeShawn’s little cousin, even if he wanted to. So that didn’t leave many options.

After he checked that Little La La was in bed, and kissed her on the forehead, he went looking for Ronnie to discuss those options. Unfortunately, the rabbit-ass motherfucker must’ve known DeShawn was on the lookout for him, because he was nowhere to be found for the longest time. DeShawn was just about to give up when he ran smack into the kid coming out of the Circle K convenience store.

He’d gotten right up into Ronnie’s grill, but quickly saw that something wasn’t clicking. DeShawn hadn’t thought to ask Little La La if she’d told the boy yet. The answer was clear from the surprise and confusion in Ronnie’s face.

“I din’t know you was declaring the girl off limits,” he’d stammered. He apologized, but he gave no hint he knew about the condition she was in. “I’d have never touched her if you’d said the word.”

DeShawn swore, shook his head, and brought the stupid punk back to the house. Now Ronnie lay sleeping on the overstuffed chair in the corner, curled up like some little kid.

DeShawn didn’t sleep. Instead he sipped a brew and watched some big-ass black girl shake her moneymaker while he mulled over what to do about Ronnie and Little La La.

He shook his head. What choice was there? Ronnie could try to hit some big score and have enough to take care of La La and the baby, but what were the odds of that? He couldn’t handle that kind of action. Besides, the stupid punk would probably blow all the money. Spend it all on rims and chains. Shit.

DeShawn sipped his beer. A blue-clad form in the easy chair shifted in his sleep, passed gas, and sighed. DeShawn ignored it. Put five brothers in a room, he figured one of them had to fart eventually. Plus, it wasn’t healthy to hold that stuff inside.

The beer was flat, so he screwed the cap back on the bottle and walked into the messy kitchen. He opened the fridge and put the bottle on the bottom rack, where it was coldest. He knew that because unlike most of his crew in the other room, DeShawn had finished high school. He even flirted with going to college, though he never told anyone. In his world, saying he wanted to go to college was along the same lines as telling everyone he was gay or something. The reaction would not have been congratulatory.

Besides, he wouldn’t be where he was now, running his own crew. Taking River City for serious bank every goddamn day.

He smiled and closed the refrigerator. Then he thought about Ronnie again and scowled. What in the hell was he going to do about him and Little La La? Maybe if he had Ronnie take care of the-

KA-BLAM!

DeShawn jumped. “What the fuck?” he yelled, and took a step toward the living room.

Another blast exploded through the front window. Glass flew across the room. The groggy gang members instinctively dove for the floor and huddled behind furniture.

DeShawn dropped into a crouch. He reached into his waistband and pulled out the 9 mm Glock he kept tucked there. His hand trembled with adrenaline. He took a deep breath and told himself to relax.

The sound of squealing tires echoed through the shattered windows.

“Motherfuckers is doin’ a drive-by,” he said in a low tone. His voice carried in the silence of the room. “Some gonna be dead motherfuckers,” he added for the benefit of his boys.

For a long moment no one moved. DeShawn listened carefully, but all he could hear was the racing whine of a small engine descending in the distance. He waited another few seconds, then motioned toward the sprawling figures on the floor of the living room. “Any o’ y’all hit?”

There was a pause, then a general murmur in the negative.

DeShawn rose. “Well, then, get yo’ asses off the motherfucking floor and check it out,” he snapped. He turned and strode quickly back to the bedroom to check on Little La La. He found the girl sitting up in bed, blinking in confusion.

“What is it, Dee?” she asked him.

Relieved, DeShawn slipped his gun into his waistband. He sat on the edge of the bed and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t you worry none. Just some broke-ass wannabes taking a shot at the title.”

“Huh?”

“Bad guys,” he told her. “Go back to sleep.”

She nodded and slid beneath the covers. DeShawn was pretty sure she was back asleep before he left the room.

He returned to the now empty living room. The front door stood open, and he made his way toward it. He’d almost reached the threshold when the sharp crack of automatic gunfire erupted in the night. He dropped to the ground but the rounds weren’t landing near him. He saw the muzzle flashes from behind parked cars across the street. The shooters fired in controlled bursts, their bullets tearing into the assembled group of gang bangers in the front yard.

DeShawn watched in horror as his boys scrambled for cover. One did a grotesque, shuddering chicken dance before flopping to the ground.

Almost as soon as the gunfire started, it ended. A van appeared in front of the house and slowed to a near stop. Three shooters materialized from their positions of cover and walked purposefully toward the van. The side door slid open and the first gunman climbed inside.

Rage washed over DeShawn. These motherfuckers were not getting away! He tore his nine from his waistband, pointed, and cranked off three quick rounds.

He was instantly rewarded with a long burst of gunfire. Bullets tore up the doorframe and bit into the ground in front of him. He heard the whizzing whine of a ricochet off the concrete steps.

The van continued slowly along the street. The two gunmen still outside moved next to it, using it as cover. Every couple of seconds, one of them stepped from behind the van and sent a few rounds in his direction. He’d seen this tactic somewhere before, but couldn’t remember where. Then the man inside the van started firing at him and he rolled to his left.

A few more rounds peppered the house. One of the men shouted something in a guttural tone. Then came the sound of slamming doors and an accelerating engine.

DeShawn lay still for a long moment, shell-shocked. The distant wail of sirens brought him out of it. He cursed and clambered to his feet. The wooden doorframe was chewed up from the gunfire-chunks were missing, and splintered edges pointed out at sharp angles.

There was a long, painful moan from the front yard, but DeShawn ignored it. He had to take care of his gun first. He went out into the yard, where two of his boys lay on the ragged grass. One, Sweaty, twisted and turned while he moaned in pain. The other lay still.

DeShawn peered closer at the still body. It was Ronnie.

Shit, DeShawn thought. A pang of grief jumped up in his chest. Not for the dumb-ass punk on the grass, but for his little cousin. La La was going to take it hard.

The sirens drew closer.

Gotta do what I gotta do.

DeShawn wiped the grip of his gun with his shirt, then squatted next to Ronnie and tucked the pistol into his slack hand.

“Sorry, G,” he whispered. “You was never shit, but at least you can die like a good soldier.”

He wanted to know who got away and who got hit. It was also important to know right now who fought back, because if he didn’t, he knew there’d be plenty of lying going on about it later. He moved away from the fallen boy and tried to survey the yard, but it was too dark, and he couldn’t see anything.

The yelp of the police siren burst onto the street and the patrol car screeched to a halt.

DeShawn held his hands in the air. He didn’t want some nervous cop busting a cap on him. Not after surviving the assault he’d just been through.

He glanced down at Ronnie’s still body. As sad as Little La La was going to be, this did solve the problem. Of course, now DeShawn had a host of new problems to deal with, ones that wouldn’t be quite so simple.

A young officer approached slowly, his shotgun leveled at DeShawn. “Police!” he shouted. “Don’t move!”

“Easy,” DeShawn told him. “I’m the motherfuckin’ victim here.”

0614 hours

Thomas Chisolm stood next to the gang banger, his pen poised above his open notepad.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“I go by Dee.”

“That’s great,” Chisolm said, “but what’s your name?”

The man gave him a hard look, then answered, “DeShawn Brown.”

Chisolm scribbled the name on his notepad. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he had to admire the man’s composure. He’d just been shot at with high-powered automatic rifles, seen one of his buddies killed and another wounded, and yet he didn’t seem too shaken up. Chisolm had seen his type before, both in the military and since coming on the job. There was a simple word for it. The man was a warrior. Too bad he was throwing his life away being a gangbanger maggot.

“What happened next?” he asked.

DeShawn pointed. “A van pulled up right over there. Them motherfuckers wit guns came out of their hiding places and walked to it. Then they-”

“Wait a minute. They walked to the van?”

“That’s what I said. You need a hearing aid, pops?”

Chisolm glared at him. DeShawn blinked and stared back. Chisolm shook his head. “Just answer my questions. I’m trying to help you here.”

“If you’da been doing your job, this never woulda happened,” DeShawn snapped. “Where was you at, anyways? Off shoving donuts in your hole or something?”

Chisolm smiled humorlessly. “You’ll want to curb that talk,” he said in a low voice.

DeShawn opened his mouth to shoot back another comment, but Chisolm twitched his fingers next to his handcuff case. DeShawn noticed, and after a moment he closed his mouth and pressed his lips together. “What you wanna know, pops?” he asked, his voice more neutral.

“Were they wearing masks?” Chisolm asked.

DeShawn shook his head.

“Did they say anything?”

“Somethin’, but I couldn’t tell what. It sounded like some foreign shit.”

Chisolm nodded. “Show me where they were hiding before the van showed up.”

DeShawn pointed out the three locations. Chisolm noted the perfect triangulation of fire-whoever set this up had a strong understanding of military tactics. He would have to make sure the investigating detectives knew.

“Somethin’ else, too,” DeShawn said. “They didn’t all get in the van right away. Two of ’em walked behind it while they were shooting at me.”

“They used it for cover,” Chisolm muttered. “Great.”

“Thas right,” DeShawn said. “I saw that before once. I didn’t remember before, but I do now. It was in a movie.”

“What movie?”

DeShawn scratched his chin. “That Vietnam movie. The one with the little Oriental bitch sayin’ ‘me so horny’ and shit.”

“Full Metal Jacket,” Chisolm said.

DeShawn snapped his fingers and pointed. “Thas right. Them dudes was walking along next to a tank, just like these motherfuckers were doin’ with that van.”

Chisolm resisted the urge to sigh. Using a tank or an APC for cover while on the move was a fairly common military tactic. But it took knowing the tactic, as well as a little bit of planning ahead and practice.

“Can I go check on my little cousin?” DeShawn asked. He pointed to the neighbor’s house where a teenage girl sat huddled on the porch in a blanket.

“Sure,” Chisolm said. “But don’t go anywhere.”

DeShawn nodded and walked directly toward the girl.

Chisolm glanced around the crime scene’s inner perimeter. Yellow tape cordoned off the front yard of DeShawn’s house as well as the area across the street. At the edge of the outer perimeter Sergeant Shen sat in his cruiser with the door propped open, working his phone. Chisolm knew he was talking to Lieutenant Crawford in Major Crimes. He’d arrive soon, along with his detectives. They’d take over the scene and conduct the remainder of the investigation.

“Homicide, step aside,” Chisolm muttered to himself, snapping his notebook shut.

Day shift would be out soon to relieve the graveyard officers, but he decided he’d stay on scene until the detectives made it out. He hoped it was Detective Tower or Detective Browning, either of which he figured would listen to the bad news he was going to have to tell them.

0719 hours

Officer Mark Ridgeway took a deep drag from his cigarette and watched the young man in a business suit approach the edge of the crime scene. He noted the uptight, cocky swagger and the slight bulge under the left arm.

“Fed,” he muttered, and cursed silently. So much for wrapping the scene up in a timely manner.

The agent stopped in front of Ridgeway and looked him over, contempt plain in his eyes. Then he reached into his jacket and removed a billfold. “Special Agent Payne,” he announced, flashing his tin at an unimpressed Ridgeway. “FBI.”

Ridgeway nodded slowly, and blew out a stream of smoke. “You expected in there?”

Payne’s eyes narrowed. “I was requested.”

“Oh, I see.” Ridgeway raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “Requested.”

“Yes,” Payne said tightly. “By your chief, as a matter of fact.”

Ridgeway lifted the crime scene tape. “Then, by all means, go right in.”

Payne took a step forward, then stopped. He pointed at Ridgeway’s cigarette. “This is a crime scene. You need to put that out.”

Ridgeway eyed him for a moment, not entirely believing what he’d just heard.

“I’m serious,” Payne said. “Put it out.”

“This is the outer perimeter,” Ridgeway told him, letting the crime scene tape snap back into place. “There’s no chance of contaminating the scene out here.”

“This whole area is a crime scene,” Payne repeated. “And now that I’ve been called in to consult, federal procedures are to be adhered to. That means no smoking anywhere near the scene.” He leaned in slightly and forced a cold smile. “Of course, officer, if you’d like me to get your lieutenant out here to talk to you about this, I’m sure I can accommodate you.”

Ridgeway took another drag off his cigarette. It wouldn’t be Ridgeway’s lieutenant that came over. It would be the Major Crimes boss, Lieutenant Crawford. And while the man was a bona fide ball buster, they’d known each other a long time. Ridgeway wasn’t particularly worried. “How many years have you been a cop?” he asked Payne.

The special agent crossed his arms. “Why?”

“How many?” Ridgeway repeated.

“I’ve been with the bureau three years. Plus I have a degree from the University of Washington in the field of-”

“See these?” Ridgeway interrupted. He pointed at the one-inch horizontal service stripes on his left sleeve. “You know what they are?”

Payne shrugged. “Service stripes.”

“That’s right,” Ridgeway said. “Each one of these stripes is for three years of service.”

“On patrol, probably,” Payne snorted.

“Yeah, on patrol. All of them.” Ridgeway’s voice was low and mean. “And since you feds have trouble with simple things, I’ll tell you straight out that there’s nine of these stripes right here on my sleeve. Nine.” He cocked his head slightly and glared at Payne. “How many years is that, Agent Payne?”

“Twenty-seven.So what?”

“So what?” Ridgeway took a deep drag and sent the smoke billowing toward Payne. “Well, sonny, I’ll tell you so what.” He pointed at the hash marks and traced them up his sleeve. “Why don’t you just climb up this ladder and kiss my ass?”

Payne blanched. His mouth gaped open for a moment. He moved it as if to speak but no words came out. Finally he slammed it shut, turned on his heels, and stomped toward the inner perimeter.

Ridgeway shook his head and made a notation in the crime scene log of the time and who had entered. He exercised great self-discipline and labeled Payne as “Agent” instead of “Dipshit.”

Then Mark Ridgeway finished his cigarette and lit another.

0720 hours

“Military training?”

“Yes.” Thomas Chisolm nodded emphatically to Detective Ray Browning. “That’s what I’m saying.”

Chisolm stared into the intelligent, dark-brown eyes of the veteran detective. Detective Tower stood off to the side, his pen poised above a notepad as he made a preliminary sketch of the scene.

Browning gave Chisolm a long look, then nodded. “All right, Tom. I’ll keep it in mind. Who would have this kind of training?”

“Any infantryman gets it,” Chisolm said.

“That doesn’t narrow the suspect field much.”

“Any infantryman gets it,” Chisolm repeated, “but getting instruction and training is a long ways from putting into effect in a real situation with a full team.”

Browning stroked his closely cropped goatee. The jet-black whiskers had a sprinkling of gray in them. Chisolm could remember a time when Browning wore his face clean-shaven. The detective’s skin had been a more vibrant cocoa color back then. Now it had a worn, dusty look to it.

We’re all getting old, Chisolm thought. Even so, he was glad for the deep wisdom he saw in Browning’s eyes.

“You’re saying it takes a lot to employ these tactics?” Browning asked. “More than just being trained?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Whoever executed this operation has either done it before, probably in the military, or they planned for it extensively.”

“Are you saying that because of the-”

“Triangulation of fire. It’s the exact opposite of crossfire.” He peered closer at Browning. “Were you ever in SWAT, Ray?”

Browning shook his head. “No. Five years in patrol. The rest of it in investigations. Why?”

Chisolm squatted and motioned for Browning to do the same. “I know for a fact that you’re one hell of a detective, Ray,” Chisolm said. “Everyone does.”

“Thanks, but-”

“The thing is,” Chisolm continued, “that no one can know everything, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Even if some people think they do,” Chisolm added, his eyes flicking toward Lieutenant Crawford as he conversed with a Channel Five news reporter.

Browning smiled slightly. “Even if.”

“Okay, then. Here’s what you might not know.” Chisolm removed his pen from his uniform shirt and scratched in the dirt while he spoke. “Here’s the van,” he said, drawing a small circle in the dirt, “and here’s the house.”

“Got it.”

Chisolm marked the positions of the gunmen with a large dot for each. “This is where the shooters were staged,” he said. “Keep in mind that every one of them had cover and concealment, whether it was the one behind that tree over there or crouched next to the front tire of that pickup truck.”

Browning nodded.

Chisolm drew a line from shooter to shooter, creating a rough semicircle. “They’re covering about 120 degrees of the compass here. That gives them a huge field of fire, but it also keeps them from being in a crossfire and out of danger of hitting each other.” He emphasized his point by drawing lines from each shooter’s position toward the house.

“It was an ambush all along,” Browning muttered.

“Exactly,” Chisolm said. “They used the gangster drive-by tactic and threw a couple of shots into the house as a ruse. This draws the majority of the bangers outside.” He stabbed his pen into the dirt. “Once they’re outside, they walk into the middle of hell. From their perspective, bullets would have been coming from everywhere.”

Browning nodded thoughtfully. “One of the witnesses said that the shooting was loud and definitely from what she called machine guns. But she said it only lasted about five or ten seconds at the most.”

“Right,” Chisolm said, “because these guys knew what they were going to do. They had a plan. They had concentrated fire. They poured a full magazine of rounds down onto these poor bastards, went back to cover, and did a reload. Meanwhile, the van swoops in. They use it for cover as they get away.”

“That’s pretty organized,” Browning said. “And impressive.”

“It’s more than impressive,” Chisolm said. “It takes training, experience, and balls. You have to be ready for anything.”

“No plan survives contact with the enemy,” Browning quoted.

Chisolm nodded emphatically. “Exactly. In this case, you got DeShawn here, who didn’t come outside right away because he was checking on his cousin. So he’s not in the kill zone when they open fire. He gets a good look at them after the first volley.”

“He was a little bit outgunned, it sounds like.”

“Sure he was. But that’s not the point. The point is, what do these guys do? When things don’t go as planned?”

Browning considered a moment. “They stay calm. They continue to fire. And they stick to their plan.”

“And they get away,” Chisolm added, smiling. He pulled his pen from the dirt and wiped it clean. The two men stood, both ignoring the crackling sounds of the other’s knees. “See, Ray? You’re as smart as I figured you were.”

Browning snorted. “We’ll see.”

“Detective Browning?”

Both men turned to see a man of about thirty years old in a suit. Chisolm recognized him immediately.

“Payne?” he asked, surprised.

Payne gave him a contemptuous look. “It’s Agent Payne,” he corrected, flashing his credentials. “FBI.”

Chisolm raised his thumb and forefinger to his face and rubbed his tired eyes. Memories of a younger Maurice Payne riding in his training car danced in his head. He recalled the weak, mush-mouthed commands, all the fumbling, the constant mistakes.

“FBI,” he muttered. “Great. I don’t need this headache.”

“The agency is working in conjunction with your chief of police to address the issue of Russian organized crime in River City,” Payne announced. “I expect full cooperation from you on this matter, Detective.”

Browning waited a beat before offering a clipped “Of course.”

Chisolm opened his eyes and sighed.

Payne turned his gaze to Chisolm. “That goes for you as well, Officer Chisolm.”

Chisolm chuckled. “How long have you been waiting to say that?” he asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Payne answered, but Chisolm could see the spiteful delight dancing in his eyes.

“Sure you don’t,” Chisolm said. He nodded at Browning. “If you need anything, let me know.” Then he turned to leave.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Payne asked.

Chisolm kept walking.

“I’m talking to you, Officer,” Payne yelled after him. “Come back here!”

“My shift’s over,” Chisolm said, not bothering to turn around. “And I don’t answer to you.”

When he reached the yellow crime scene tape, Ridgeway lifted it for him. He gave Chisolm a rare smile. “Have a good sleep, Tom,” he said.

Chisolm returned the grin and jerked his thumb in Payne’s direction. “Oh, with him in charge, I imagine I’ll sleep like a baby.”

0843 hours

Anthony Battaglia slid his house key into the lock and paused to gather himself. He’d stopped for beers again after work. With B.J. He’d promised himself he’d only have one, but before he realized it they’d each had three. Both had done a good job of keeping up pretenses that the sexual tension wasn’t there, while at the same time doing nothing to dispel it. Battaglia wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Well, you’re not gonna figure it out standing on the porch.

He closed the front door behind him as quietly as possible. He figured Rebecca would be awake, but it was summertime and they let the kids sleep in. He tossed his keys onto the table next to the door and wandered into the kitchen.

Rebecca sat at the breakfast bar, reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee. She looked up when he walked in. “Busy night?”

Battaglia shrugged. “There was a shooting near the end of shift.”

“Was it bad?”

“It was a gang drive-by,” Battaglia answered. “They unloaded on those guys with assault rifles.” He reached out and took a bite of Rebecca’s toast. “Killed four.”

Rebecca lowered the newspaper. “Four?”

“Yep.”

“That’s horrible.”

“It wasn’t horrible when it was one?”

“It was,” Rebecca said, “but… four? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of something like that happening here before.”

Battaglia yawned. “I don’t know if it has or not.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. He hoped she didn’t notice the beer on his breath. “I’m heading to bed.”

“Okay,” she said behind him. As he neared the doorway, she asked, “It was bad enough you needed beers after, huh?”

Battaglia looked over his shoulder and shrugged. “Yeah, a couple of us from the platoon had choir practice after shift. Why?”

Rebecca gave him a warm smile. “It’s not a problem, babe. But I’m here if you want to talk to me, too, okay?”

Guilt washed over him. He clenched his jaw and swallowed. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Battaglia nodded. “Well, good night, then.” He turned to go.

“Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“I finished a new poem last night. I left it on the nightstand for you.”

“Great,” Battaglia said with an enthusiasm he didn’t feel.

“This one’s a little darker, but I think you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“So let me know what you think?”

“Sure.” He cleared his throat. “Can I read it when I wake up, though? I’m bushed.”

“Of course. Get some sleep.”

“All right. Thanks.” He turned to go again.

“Babe?”

“What?” he asked, a bit sharply.

Rebecca’s expression turned slightly hurt, but she didn’t acknowledge his tone. “I love you,” she said. “That’s all.” After a moment she added, “Good night.”

Battaglia nodded and turned away.

He climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Frustration and guilt burned in his chest as he took every step. Once in the bedroom, he kicked off his boots and peeled his clothing off. He ignored the sheet of paper on the nightstand, written in Rebecca’s flowing script. Instead he flopped into the king-sized bed and hoped that the beer and the long night would lower the curtain of sleep on him right away, but the wheels of his mind started turning.

He shouldn’t be thinking about B.J. Rebecca was a good woman. She was his wife. The mother of his children.

Battaglia sighed into his pillow. All of that didn’t matter. It wasn’t the same anymore. Rebecca just didn’t… excite him. And she made him feel stupid. She’d taken to reading a lot of different books. Some were poetry or stories, other times it was history or philosophy. He asked her why and she said it was for entertainment. To expand her mind.

For entertainment, Battaglia would just as soon watch a shoot-’em-up movie or catch a ball game. As far as mind expansion went, the only thing he equated that with was drug use. And there wasn’t a cop alive who thought that was okay.

The quiet hum of the air conditioner filled the dark room. He could almost hear the rustle of the paper on the nightstand. He thought about B.J. to drive away the sound. Her laugh. Her eyes. The smell of her hair when she’d brushed up against him. The feel of her lips when they’d grazed his cheek.

“Jesus,” Battaglia murmured.

He was going to have a hard time getting to sleep this morning.

1020 hours

“You did well, my brothers,” Val told the assembled group in the deserted auto shop. “The TV stations are reporting four kills. I am pleased.”

Val noticed the way each man stood ramrod straight in his presence. He noticed the subtle reaction of pride when he praised them. He allowed himself a flutter of satisfaction-these were now truly his men. No longer Sergey’s, but his. That would matter later on. It would be critical. Plans within plans within plans.

“The van?” he asked Yuri.

Yuri smiled, showing the rot of his blackened teeth. “At the other shop on Market Street. By noon, it will be in pieces. Then I will transport those pieces to the salvage yard.”

“Good. Any piece with a VIN on it must be destroyed.”

Yuri nodded. “I understand.”

Val turned to Black Ivan. “You are ready for the next move?”

“Da.” The large man stood even straighter. “We’ll give the burros the same thing we gave the chernozhopyi this morning.”

“This one must be quieter,” Val said. He motioned toward Mikhail, the smallest man in the group. “He is good with the knife, no?”

Mikhail glanced at Ivan. Then he removed a large folding knife from his pocket and snapped the blade into place with a flick of his wrist. Without looking down at the knife, Mikhail spun and twirled the black blade adeptly. He swayed his arm back and forth as the knife danced in his hand. The motion reminded Val of a hooded cobra. Then, just as quickly as he started, he stopped, the knife poised to strike.

“He is good,” Ivan said simply.

“Then you know what to do,” Val said. “And do it soon.”

“It will be so.”

Val met the eyes of each man, his demanding gaze a mixture of threat, trust, and pride. Then he turned and left. He slid into the passenger seat of his green BMW.

“Go,” he told Pavel.

Pavel turned down the music on the stereo and drove north. “Where next?”

“I am to meet your father at the bakery on Hamilton Street.”

“Good,” Pavel said. “I’m hungry.”

Val didn’t speak. He ignored the mindless tune on the radio and turned over the morning’s events in his mind. The execution by his men had been nearly flawless. The remaining Crips would be shell-shocked from the attack. Once the next stage of Sergey’s plan was completed, Val was sure that they’d be ready to deal their way out of any further problems.

That left the bookkeeper. He’d put the word out to everyone he could think of regarding Oleg. There was a substantial reward for anyone who came forward with information on the traitor. Of course, he didn’t need to tell anyone that there was an equally substantial penalty for anyone who hid Oleg or helped him in any way.

If he were Oleg, where would he run? Certainly not home to Ukraine. With all of the business and family connections there, it would be tantamount to walking into Sergey’s living room.

He couldn’t go to any of the cities in the U.S. that had a heavy Russian population. The result would be the same-someone would see him, and whether they had the word that Val wanted him or not, the knowledge of his whereabouts would eventually find its way to someone who did. It wouldn’t take long for the promise of cash or the fear of a visit from Black Ivan to result in a phone call, and that would be that. Oleg was not stupid. He had to know this.

Where, then? Val frowned. It was a difficult proposition for him to consider, because he himself would never run. He might lie low for a brief time until he was ready to exact his vengeance, but flee like a coward? Never.

He didn’t think Oleg was a coward, either. He would want revenge for those three beloved bodies that burned up in his home. How best to accomplish that?

Val stared out his window as the businesses on Nevada Street flashed past. Several blocks of mini strip malls were filled with niche businesses from ceramics to used music to pet grooming. He smiled as they passed a small Russian grocery store. The bold lettering of the Cyrillic alphabet on the red sign above the door gave him some measure of satisfaction.

We are gaining a true foothold here, he thought. We are making it home.

Oleg may not have been a coward, but he was no soldier, either. There was no way he could successfully come after Sergey with guns and force. Oleg was smart. He had to know that wasn’t possible. So how best to exact his revenge?

Val resisted a sigh. He’d known the answer instinctively all along, but had wished it weren’t true. He’d hoped that even though Oleg had betrayed Sergey, he wouldn’t go so far as to betray his entire people. But his hope had been a vain one. There were no other possibilities. Oleg had gone to the police.

Val supposed that this made things easier, in a way. He could focus his efforts on finding information, casting his nets around the police station instead of a wider area. But it also accelerated matters. He had to find a way to get to Oleg before the bookkeeper gave them too much. Every hour counted.

Pavel signaled and pulled into the small parking lot outside the Russian bakery. He turned off the car and released his seat belt. Val reached across and stopped him. “Wait here.”

Pavel scowled. “But I’m hungry.”

“I’ll bring you something.”

“Maybe I want to see my father,” Pavel suggested.

Val turned a cold, hard glare onto his nephew. “Then stay home for dinner tonight instead of running around with your imbecile friends. But for now, you wait in the car.”

Pavel pouted but said nothing.

Val went inside. Sergey was seated in the corner with a newspaper, sipping coffee and nibbling a pastry. He didn’t look up when Val sat across from him. Val checked the masthead of the newspaper. It was the local paper of record, the River City Herald. The much smaller Russian-language weekly sat at his elbow.

A young girl that Val knew to be the baker’s daughter appeared at the table. “Coffee?” she asked.

Val glanced at Sergey’s cup. “Do you have Turkish?”

She shook her head. “But I have beans from Turkey. I can make an espresso.”

Val waved her suggestion away. “Never mind. Just bring me another of these pastries. To go.”

After she left, Sergey lowered the newspaper. “To go? You are in some kind of hurry today, brother?”

“The pastry is for Pavel. He is driving me today and he is hungry.”

“He doesn’t come in to pay his respects to his father?”

Val shook his head. “He should not hear what we speak about this morning.”

Sergey raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “Of course. But someday, he must learn it all.”

“Someday,” Val said. “But not today.”

“No,” Sergey said. “I suppose it is too soon for him.”

“His time will come.”

Sergey watched him for a few moments, then motioned to the newspaper. “It never surprises me,” he said.

“What is that?”

“These Americans,” Sergey said. “They love the violent movies. The Godfather movies, the Rambo. But then a few criminals get shot, men that they would like to see go far away anyway, and what do they do?” He flicked the newspaper with his fingers. “They cry and wring their hands like women. I don’t understand it.”

Val shrugged. “Americans are different.”

Sergey snorted. “They are weak.”

Val didn’t agree, but he was not going to argue with Sergey. Americans had their soft spots, but it would never do to underestimate them. Throughout history, they’d always seemed to have the snarl when their backs were put to the wall. Maybe the 1990s generation would be different, but Val doubted it.

“Anyway,” Sergey continued, reaching for his coffee, “tell me what you are here to tell me.” He sipped his coffee and watched Val.

“Your main operation is moving forward perfectly,” Val told him. “It is the other complication that I am worried about.”

“The bookkeeper,” Sergey grunted. He tore off a piece of his pastry and tossed it into his mouth. “When we find him, I would like him taken apart a piece at a time.”

“I believe he has gone to the police,” Val said. “In fact, I see no other option for him.”

Sergey pressed his lips together. “Then we have very little time.”

“True.”

“This is bad, Valeriy.”

“I agree.”

“He knows too much.”

“I know,” Val answered. “But that may work in our favor.”

Sergey scowled. “How?”

“It may give us a little time.”

Sergey plucked another piece of his pastry. “I am afraid I don’t understand, little brother,” he said.

“Oleg wants revenge,” Val explained. “But he is not stupid. That is why he went to the police. It was his best opportunity for revenge.”

“I know that,” Sergey snapped. “Tell me how this may help us.”

The baker’s daughter approached the table and set a wrapped pastry next to Val. He reached into his pocket, peeled off a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to her. “Keep the extra,” he told her. “Buy a music CD or something pretty for yourself.”

She blushed and thanked him. Val waited until she had walked out of earshot to speak again. “Once Oleg thinks it out, he will start to wonder what is beyond his revenge. What comes after. And once he considers that, he will slow down. He will tell the police very little. He will want to make the best deal for himself. All he has for leverage is the information he knows. So he will wait.”

Sergey looked at him, considering. After a few moments he nodded his head. “You may be correct. But what if he wants revenge too much to wait?”

“He is too smart for that.”

“What if the police give him the greatest deal right away?”

“They won’t.”

“What if they do?” Sergey pressed.

He is like a scared woman sometimes, Val thought. These are the times that it shows he was never a soldier.

“I heard a saying here in America,” Val said. “It goes, ‘What if grasshoppers had machine guns?’”

Sergey’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What does this mean?”

“If grasshoppers had machine guns, the birds would not fuck with them,” Val said.

There was a long moment of silence, then a large grin spread across Sergey’s face. “I see. This is funny.” He made a gun with both fingers and pantomimed a machine gun burst. “Ba-ba-bah. No more birds. Good.”

Val returned his smile. “I have a cousin who works on a janitor crew that cleans at the police station. I will ask him to listen and look. Maybe we can find where Oleg is.”

“Good, good.” Sergey said. He picked up his coffee and took a drink. “And raise the reward.”

“You are too generous,” Val said.

Sergey waved his words away. “It breeds loyalty.”

Val reached for the pastry, but Sergey put his hand over it. Val looked up at him. “You had something more?”

Sergey nodded slowly. “Yes. I am not so sure about your idea when it comes to insulating me.”

“It is for your protection,” Val said. “And Marina’s.”

“Perhaps,” Sergey said. “But life is risk. I still plan to attend the summit you will be arranging soon.”

“I advise against it,” Val told him.

“I know. But sometimes, the soldiers need to see that their general is in charge. That he is brave and will join the battle with them.”

Val didn’t reply right away. By the time he arranged the summit there would be little danger of battle. The men in attendance would already be defeated. The meeting would be more like a Roman triumph parade than a battle. “It is, of course, up to you,” he finally said.

“I know.” Sergey picked up his paper and went back to reading.

Val took the pastry and left the bakery. The anemic dinging sound as he swung the door open irritated him, but he made an effort to conceal it.

Sergey was only making sure Val knew who was in charge. He was only making a point. That’s why he wanted to change Val’s plans. That’s why he had been so dismissive of him. It was classic gangster leadership behavior. He was seeking to assert his dominance over Val. To show him who was the alpha wolf.

A very old Russian saying sprang to Val’s mind, drowning out his injured pride: ’Tis a hard winter when one wolf eats another.

Val smiled and opened the car door. He tossed the bakery bag to Pavel.

“Thanks, Uncle,” Pavel said. He unwrapped it and took a large bite. “Where next?”

“Take me to my coffee shop,” Val told him. “We’ll wait there for things to be finished.”

“Sure,” Pavel said. He took another huge bite, started the car, and headed north.

Val looked out the window and smiled. It might be summer, but Sergey was in for a very hard winter.

1240 hours

Esteban Ruiz walked down Nettleton Street, proudly displaying his brown handkerchief. He wore it as a headband. His closely cropped hair didn’t absorb much sweat, so flying his colors that way had an additional benefit. He also wore a white wife-beater and baggy dark blue denims. Sturdy brown boots and a.25 auto in his pocket rounded out his ensemble. No one would doubt who he was. Not just a gangster, but a Dean Avenue Diablo.

If Esteban smiled much, that thought might have coaxed a grin to his lips. Hell, he wasn’t just a Diablo, he was the Diablos. That was him. Numero uno. El Jefe. El Capitan. The Boss. Call it what you will, in English or Spanish, it meant the same thing.

He ran his crew and he ran West Central.

The sun beat down as he walked along the wide sidewalk. He was headed to the Broadway Food Store to get something cold to drink. Maybe some Gatorade for now and some cerveza for later. He could have sent Pepe or Luis, but he wanted the time alone. And he could have driven the short distance to the store, but he wanted to do the kind of thinking that only seemed to work for him when he was walking.

He’d seen the news. Someone had shot up the local Crips pretty good. He figured it was a rival Crip set, or maybe an internal power struggle. Two things impressed him about the event, though. One was that someone had managed to get hold of fully automatic rifles, and that was some serious shit in these parts. While it was a little easier to get guns in the Pacific Northwest, it had also proved very difficult to get full auto pieces. So the fact that someone was able to pull that off, and with AKs, no less, well, that impressed Esteban quite a bit.

The more important thing that impressed him was the opportunity that it created for him and his crew. Whether this shooting was an internal struggle or a gang versus gang, four dead homies was going to hurt those Crips. On top of that, they’d be keeping their heads down, waiting for the next visit from those AK-47s. They wouldn’t be up for very much in the way of business. The Crips wouldn’t be in any sort of position to supply the demand.

Los Diablos could. But he had to think it through. If he moved in too quick or too hard, they might think he was behind that drive-by. That would result in all-out war between the Crips and Los Diablos. He didn’t want that. But maybe if they just crept in a little at a time. Just nibble and nibble while the others were fighting each other. If they came around eventually and wanted their piece back, Esteban could decide whether it was worth fighting for. Or he could negotiate. Hell, if he had to, he could just give it to them, though he doubted he would. Those mayates might get through whatever fight they were in, but they weren’t going to come out of it stronger.

Esteban crossed Broadway Avenue and turned left. He could feel the sweat running down the small of his back and was looking forward to something cold. Maybe he’d get a Pepsi. A great big cup, chock full of ice. That’d go down real nice.

Out of habit, Esteban cast his eyes left and right as he walked. The Crips shooting probably didn’t mean he was in any greater danger than usual, but it jangled his nerves just a little bit.

He didn’t see any cars that made him suspicious. A pair of kids rode bikes in the empty parking lot across the street. A block away, he could hear the noise of a basketball game at Dutch Jake Park. A short, thin man stood using the payphone near the door to the grocery store.

As Esteban approached the door, it swung open toward him. A kid no older than nine burst out, clutching a Slurpee in both hands. Immediately behind him came a smaller version of the same kid, maybe six or so. He carried the same size cup. The blue ice sloshed as he hurried after his older brother.

“Michael!” he yelled. “Mom said to wait for me!” Michael kept running.

Esteban held the door, waiting until the younger kid cleared the threshold.

“Michael! I’m telling Mom!”

Esteban smiled slightly. He had an older brother. Paco was in Walla Walla, serving six to twelve for a manslaughter charge. It had been at least three months since he’d visited his older brother. He decided to do that soon. Right now, though, he wanted that Pepsi-

A firm hand gripped his left shoulder, then a hard coldness bit into his right kidney. He took in a sharp breath. Before there was even any pain, he felt the blade slide forward, cutting through his abdomen. When the knife tore free somewhere near his belly button, the coldness turned to a harsh fire of intense pain exploding from his middle. He tried to cry out, but only a wet gasp slipped past his lips.

Strong hands guided him to the ground and leaned him against the wall next to the door. Esteban wanted to see who it was. He wanted to take the identity of his killer with him to hell, but he couldn’t muster the strength to turn his head and look. The most he could manage was to stare down at his middle. Bright red blood coursed out, soaking into his white T-shirt and pooling around his knees.

Chinga tu madre, puto, he tried to say, but could only gurgle.

He didn’t want to die this way. He refused to die this way. He would take this coward with him. Esteban wrapped his left arm around his seeping middle to keep his insides from spilling out. He slid his hand into his pocket, fumbling for the.25 auto. The bullets might not be that big, but when he put one in the middle of that maricon’s forehead, it would do the-

The next thing he knew was darkness.