Killer Swell

25

“Married to an asshole, a drug user, and working for the G-men. Not exactly the old Kate,” Carter said.

“No, not exactly,” I mumbled back to him.

We were headed north on the 5, Sea World and Mission Bay on the west side, beckoning the tourists that flocked to America’s Finest City. Traffic was moving smoothly for once but it didn’t improve my mood. Nothing was making sense, and I was getting angrier with each new revelation. I felt like the more I discovered about Kate, the further I got from the truth.

“Would they really use someone like Kate inside a world like Costilla’s?” I asked, unable to shake the question from my brain.

Carter shifted in his seat and tugged at the seat belt. “They’d use whoever they could to get what they need. Male, female, young, old. Doesn’t matter to them.”

I nodded absently.

“The ME said Kate was using drugs, right? DEA was using her for something in connection with Costilla. That says to me she got caught in something,” Carter said. “An immunity deal maybe?”

I thought about that for a moment. “Maybe. Just seems odd. What did they catch her with that would justify putting her under the gun like that?”

“It had to have been some heavy shit,” Carter said. “But I can’t imagine why the law enforcement geniuses would think she’d make a great undercover candidate. All of a sudden, some upper-crust white woman shows up and tries to secretly fit in? Fucking brilliant.”

The wind from the open windows whipped through my hair as I turned everything over in my mind. If Kate was involved in drugs and got caught, it would make sense that there might be some sort of a deal made. But I thought a court testimonial would make a lot more sense than sending her into the lion’s den.

“Yeah. Why would you put someone like her in a position like that?” I said. “How the hell would she know what she was doing?”

“If a deal was set up,” Carter said, “someone would’ve needed to do some string pulling.”

I was getting around to that thought. “Like Daddy Crier.”

We drove in silence for a moment, cutting under the twisting curl of concrete that jutted off the freeway and up to the bluffs of La Jolla.

“You think Costilla found out what Kate was doing?” I asked.

“Maybe,” Carter said.

“But…”

“But don’t you think he would’ve left a message?”

“Like?”

Carter waved a hand in the air. “A message that said ‘I know who she was and what she was doing.’ She was in a trunk, strangled. That’s not exactly a Colombian necktie.”

I considered that. No murder was mundane or ordinary, but Carter had a point. Now that we knew that the twists in Kate’s life were more severe, the way she had died, the way I’d found her, didn’t seem that dramatic.

“Not to change the subject or anything,” Carter said, interrupting my thoughts. “But that Cadillac has been with us for a while, dude.” He reached under his seat and retrieved my gun, a 9mm Glock 17, setting it in his lap.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. A white Cadillac was two cars back, in our lane. “How long?”

“Long enough to be a problem.” He opened the glove box and pulled his gun out. He held the.45 HK Mark 23 low against the door.

I moved over into the fast lane. The Cadillac sped up and moved into our blind spot, trying to hide.

I was trying to figure out what to do when the blue van in front of us hit its brakes.

Jamming my foot on the brakes, I turned the wheel to the left, sliding onto the shoulder and next to the median. The van moved left in the same direction, anticipating where I’d go, blocking us in the front. The rear doors opened slightly and two gun barrels emerged in the tight space.

The Cadillac cut over and screeched to a halt diagonally behind us.

Trapped.

Carter tossed my gun at me. I rolled out of the door, staying close to the car and the ground. The windshield of my Jeep shattered in seconds, the bullets flying like irritated hornets from both directions, the shards of glass spilling into the front seat.

Carter followed me out the driver’s-side door, a small streak of blood making its way down his neck. We had about three feet to maneuver in between my car and the concrete median.

I rose up quickly into the open window of the door and fired into the van. Carter swiveled and fired into the Cadillac behind us. I ducked down, and we both stayed close to the car, bullets flying over us.

“We gotta move,” I said. “We’re fish in a bowl right here.”

More bullets crackled against the pavement behind my car, and we both flinched. Carter looked at the median.

“I’ll cover,” he said. “You get over this and move backward toward the Cadillac. Come at them from behind.”

I nodded. He rose up and started firing, first at the van, then the Cadillac. I took one short step and flung myself over the median, praying that I wouldn’t spill out into the southbound fast lane.

Cars were stopping on both sides of the freeway, watching our little ambush. I heard metal on metal from a distance and knew someone had been following too closely. Voices were yelling but they sounded far away and unintelligible.

I crab-crawled about fifty feet on the pavement, my eyes on the top of the median. I spun when I knew I was well past the Cadillac and rose up over the edge.

Two teenagers, clad in white T-shirts, baggy chinos, and blue bandanas around their heads, were behind the open doors of the Cadillac, automatic weapons pointed in Carter’s direction. I took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The one on the driver’s side dropped to the ground, clutching his leg. His partner looked in my direction from the other side of the car.

I saw Carter’s head come up briefly, then go down when more shots from the van were gunned in his direction. I fired through the Cadillac at the passenger. He returned the fire, then sidestepped toward the van, staying low on the passenger side of the Cadillac, then my Jeep. A few more shots flew from the back windows of the van, the rear doors opened more, and the shooter from the Cadillac dove in. The doors shut and the van screeched away, whizzing between the stopped cars on our side of the freeway, smoke flowing from the tires. They maneuvered to the far right lane, gunned the engine again, and sped north.

All lanes of traffic on both sides of the freeway were blocked now, cars pointed in every possible direction, people’s eyes wild with fear. The air was heavy with the smell of burnt rubber and cordite. Sweat was pouring down my back. I hopped the median and kicked the gun away from the kid I’d shot as he writhed in pain, his thigh leaking blood rapidly. I looked at his face but didn’t recognize him.

“Carter, it’s clear,” I yelled.

I expected some wiseass line about taking so long or my driving getting us into this.

But the only response I got was the sound of sirens in the distance.