Three shirt deal

Chapter 30

The prison surveillance tape showed Tru Hickman shuffling across the cafeteria, carrying an empty metal tray, moving like a man on Thorazine. Two muscled Hispanics with gang tatts trailed him innocently. Once Tru put his tray on the conveyor they made their move. One grabbed his arms while the other started shanking him. The blade flashed over twenty times, in and out, underhanded and quick, prison style. In seconds, Tru slumped to the floor. The two inmates turned and, as if they'd had nothing to do with it, walked calmly away. The assistant warden, who I had just learned was named Jack Slater, shut off the tape.

"They're both predicate felons up here on third strikes, so killing Hickman doesn't add anything to their sentences. Those two are here for the duration. They'll get charged with murder one, cop to second degree, and when it's all done, the sentences will run concurrently."

"Van Owen Street Locos?" I asked.

"The baddest of the bad," he answered with a put-upon sigh.

"These guys are in Mike Church's crew," I said softly, looking at Secada who had remained silent throughout the video. Her only reaction had been a sharp intake of breath when the stabbing started.

"I want to talk to them," I said.

"They've already lawyered up," Assistant Warden Slater said. "I've been warned that they're not to be interviewed without counsel present. They're hard targets. Nobody's gonna get nada outta either one of these shitbirds."

"Let me try," Secada said.

"Besides the obvious, you don't have anything to trade." The sentence allowed an unattractive leer to stain his already fleshy features.

Hickman was in critical condition and being kept under heavy sedation so we couldn't talk to him, either. With nothing else to do, an hour later we were back in Secada's SUV heading to Los Angeles. The sun was just coming up over the low hills and there was no traffic on the highway.

"All we can do is pray he comes out of this," Secada said. "But even if he makes it, he'll be in ICU for at least a week. I don't think he's safe, even in that hospital. There's a number that buys almost anything on the inside."

I agreed with her. But unless the California Department of Corrections threw in with us, we didn't have the juice it would take to get Tru a transfer to a secure prison hospital like USC in Los Angeles. The situation seemed hopeless.

"This is my fault," I muttered again.

"It's not your fault," she answered sharply. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"This happened because of my dumb-ass move with that BlackBerry. I was so target locked on Wade Wyatt, I ignored everything else. I pushed so hard those guys figured their only move was to kill Tru."

"How does killing him change any of this?" she asked.

"Because as long as he's alive and yelling foul, we might have eventually gathered enough pieces to pressure the D. A.'s office downtown to go over Morales's head and give us a writ for a new trial. A new trial puts Mike Church back in the grease because no legitimate investigation would ever look past him the way Lieutenant Devine did. But if Hickman's dead, it's kinda over. The city's not gonna run this mess back through the system and eat a ton of bad press just to salvage some dead tweaker's reputation. I didn't think it through. I should have realized they could end this by simply eliminating the problem."

We drove on in silence while my spirits plunged. Tru's fate pressed down hard on my conscious. We were heading south on 1-99, on a short stretch of road that had narrowed to a divided three-lane highway, when about a mile ahead, we came upon half a dozen squad cars and a tow rig parked in a disorganized cluster with their flashers on. We saw that beyond the flashing vehicles, an ancient six-wheel farm truck was tipped over, blocking all three lanes.

Secada slowed to a stop. The old stake-bed rested on its left side with its load of artichokes spread across all three lanes. An elderly Mexican man with a young boy at his side was talking to the officers, gesturing with both hands. Secada waited until a highway patrolman came over.

"Sorry, road's closed," the cop said.

She showed him her badge. "Can't we get around?"

"How do you think you're gonna do that?" He had a point. The truck was across all three lanes and the heavy concrete abutment didn't allow us any room to slide past on either side.

"We need to get back to L. A.," Secada said.

"Make a U, go back about half a mile, and take Mountain Crest Road. It's a little narrow and winding but it will take you up in the hills around all this. Hooks back up to I-Ninety-nine near East Bridge."

Secada thanked him and glanced over at me. "There's a California map book in the glove compartment."

I pulled the book out as she made a U and headed back the way we'd just come. After about six-tenths of a mile we spotted the Mountain Crest exit and turned off. While I was studying the map she negotiated the washed-out, badly potholed two-lane. As we climbed up into the low hills, the road quickly became a series of blind switchbacks. It was treacherous, but the countryside was beautiful with big, sprawling oaks throwing uneven shadows on rolling green meadows.

"We should've brought a picnic," she said, trying to lighten my mood.

I was still looking down at the map when I felt the first bullet ricochet off the back of her car.

Secada said nothing, but slammed the throttle down.

I spun around and saw a new, blue Ford pickup truck, no front plate, behind us. Two black-haired, Hispanic guys were standing behind the cab, harnessed to a roll bar in the back of the truck, both pointing thirty-ought-sixes over the roof of the cab. As I turned, they started firing again and almost immediately, the back window of the SUV exploded inward, raining glass on us.

"Faster!" I yelled as Secada took the narrow, rutted curves at breakneck speed.

Two more rifle shots cracked. I managed to unfasten the seat-belt and started firing back at them through her blown-out rear window. My Airlight Smith and Wesson snubie weighed less than a pound and was a good, easy carry piece, but it was so light it kicked like a mule, and its two-inch barrel had no accuracy at this distance. I wasn't hitting anything.

"What are you packing?" I yelled at Scout.

"Glock Nine. Fifteen in the clip! My purse!" she screamed back.

I grabbed for the bag, pulled out the gun, chambered it, and started unloading 9 mm rounds at the pursuing truck. The Glock had a five-inch barrel and was much more accurate. Immediately, the slugs began to slam into the truck grill. The driver swerved to avoid being hit, then took his foot off the gas and fell back, trailing us now by about a hundred yards, reducing my effectiveness. Every time the road straightened out, there were more shots from their long rifles. Pieces of Secada's car flew off, accompanied by whining ricochets. Then, without warning, a stake-bed farm truck full of produce appeared around a blind turn, coming right at us. Secada swerved to miss it.

Several more shots sounded. Secada yelled out as blood mist flew from her right shoulder and she lost control of the SUV. Suddenly we catapulted off the narrow, winding road into the rutted fields beyond. The left front tire went into a pothole and, in an instant, we flipped over and were rolling.

The next thing I knew I was being thrown around inside the Suburban unable to get my bearings until the SUV finally came to a shuddering, bone-jarring stop, tipped over on the driver's side.

"Gotta get out! We're easy targets in here!" I shouted, struggling to get up.

Secada was pinned underneath me between the steering wheel and the door. Her bloody arm hung uselessly at her side.

"Vengan! Andele!" someone yelled, and I heard both truck doors slam.

I finally pushed myself up by standing on the steering column. When I had enough leverage, I heaved the passenger side door up and open, then peeked up over the running board at the field behind us.

The two rifle men had untied themselves from the roll bar and were scrambling out of the truck. The driver was also out and aiming his gun around the front fender. I'd somehow managed to hold on to Scout's Glock during the crash and started cranking off rounds.

" Chingada!" one of them yelled and then immediately dove back behind the blue Ford pickup.

"Come out! Come out now and you no get hurt!" a man with a thick Mexican accent yelled.

I fired for effect, hitting nothing, until I was dry.

Secada must have been counting shots, because as soon as the slide locked open, she shouted, "Here!" and handed me up a fresh clip with her good hand. I hit the eject button, dropped the empty, and slammed the new clip home. I tromboned the slide and readied myself to start firing.

"Go out the back window, Scout. Head for the trees. I'll keep them pinned down."

Holding her bleeding shoulder, Secada struggled painfully over the seats, and finally wiggled through the broken back window. Once she was outside, I laid down a barrage of cover fire as she sprinted across the open field. As my slugs smashed into the truck, the driver jumped into the cab and plowed backwards away from me. My bullets bounced off the hood and grill, shattering the left side of the windshield until the driver careened recklessly to a stop behind a huge oak.

I scrambled out the back of the SUV and followed Scout across the short, open field, and up a low rise, toward a stand of poplar trees. She was noticeably losing speed and coordination, moving slower and slower. As I hurried to catch up to her, I heard the bark of both ought sixes. Then Secada fell.

"No!" I shouted. I finally reached her, scooped her up in my arms, and stumbled on.

The flat crack of more shots sounded and I felt a sharp pain in my back, then another slug tugged at my elbow. I knew I was taking rounds, but a sudden surge of adrenaline numbed the pain. The shots hadn't knocked me down yet, so I kept going, struggling up the slope with Secada cradled in my arms. I crested the hill and started down the other side. Secada's eyes were closed. Blood poured out of two deep wounds in her left side.

Then I felt a wave of numbness so overpowering that I could no longer control my body. Suddenly my legs gave out and Secada slipped from my grasp as the ground rushed up at me. Then I was tumbling downhill. I heard the distant sound of rushing water, which grew louder as I fell, until it became a deafening roar. Ice cold water flooded into my mouth and hammered my eardrums. I had come to rest in a cold mountain stream. I struggled to rise up, to locate Secada, but my arms would no longer lift my weight. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't even get my face out of the bubbling tributary. I panicked as I suddenly realized I was about to drown in less than two feet of water.