The Devil's Elixir

26

“I’ve got him. Suspect in custody, I repeat, suspect in custody.”

Todd Fugate, deputy sheriff with the San Marcos Sheriff’s Station and part of its Gangs and Narcotics squad, felt good radioing in the news. The call had come in from the San Diego office and was a high-priority request from the FBI—not exactly a daily event at the station. Fugate was just pulling out of the Grand Plaza Mall when the call had come in, and he’d jumped on it. The target’s location, a downtrodden warehouse complex tucked in off La Mirada, aka the grotto, was less than five miles down the parkway. Knowing he’d be first on the scene, he hit the gas and rushed over.

Once he got there, he didn’t even wait for backup to show up. The alert had said the suspect had been shot in the shoulder and was probably traveling alone. It didn’t specify that he was armed. Fugate didn’t need more than that, and, as it turned out, he’d been proven right. The suspect was unarmed and weak and looked like he was about to faint. He gave himself up with zero fuss. Hell, by the looks of it, he was probably relieved that his ordeal was over. Fugate would drive him to the hospital himself—faster than waiting for an ambulance to come all the way out there—and the sonofabitch would soon find himself sitting in a cushy hospital bed with flirty nurses fussing all over his bad-boy ass, which had to be way better than bleeding out in some dingy warehouse all on his own.

Fugate felt good as he herded the suspect into the backseat of his Crown Vic. He didn’t bother to handcuff him to the steel loop on the floor of the backseats. The man was pretty out of it already. Yes, the deputy sheriff was pleased with himself. The San Diego County Sheriff ’s Office had been, as per the slogan on his black-and-white’s fender, “keeping the peace since 1850,” and right now, on this fine summer’s evening, Todd Fugate felt proud to be making a solid contribution to that noble tradition.

He was dead less than a minute later.

He was pulling away from the warehouse when a big SUV appeared at the gate and suddenly, unexpectedly, charged at him. Fugate spun the wheel to avoid the collision, but the SUV’s front bumper clipped his tail and spun him around like a toy and sent him careening sideways before diving nose-first into a ditch by the warehouse’s gates. The deputy looked out through shaken eyes to see the SUV do a quick U-turn before storming back and pulling up so it was blocking his way. Before its wheels had even stopped turning, its doors were flung open and two men were climbing out.

Fugate threw the car into reverse and hit the gas pedal, but the tires just shrieked and spun aimlessly as the jammed car rumbled in its spot and refused to budge. He gave up and drew his weapon, but he was too late—the men had already sprinted over and had beaten him to it. The first slug hurt like hell as it punched into his lungs, but the pain lasted only a second. The second bullet took care of that as it went through his brain and turned his lights off.

He wasn’t alive to see them drag his charge out of the car and shove the wounded man into the back of their SUV, nor to see them drive off unchallenged.

Which was just as well.