Chapter 5

 

Again? Bear wheeled hard to his left and braked sharply. The first bullet burst through his window, grazed his forehead, and exited through the other window.

The biker slowed immediately when Bear braked, and attempted to speed up when his shot missed. Bear was too close to him, however. The Tahoe crossed lanes, and raced forward when Bear stomped the pedal. Its front fender scraped against the bike’s rear and sent it careening on West 1st Street. The biker attempted to control his ride desperately as he tried to stay away from opposing traffic.

Bear closed down on him, alert for more attackers. There didn’t seem to be any. A bike would overtake a four-wheeler in urban traffic on any day, and the shooter was already putting distance between him and the Tahoe.

Bear pursued, thankful that there weren’t that many vehicles around and when the attacker cut a left on South Olive Street, he spotted his opportunity. For a couple of moments, the biker leaned in the turn, his ride dark and shiny against the backdrop of a building, his helmeted face turning towards Bear.

No other cars in the line of sight. Nothing behind the biker. Line of sight was line of fire. Bear drew instinctively, aimed his Glock like a finger, knew he missed with the first round. The second didn’t miss. It went through the bike’s rear wheel. The third shot seemed to pierce the attacker’s leg for he jerked, lost control, and the bike fell. It slid several feet, dragging its rider along with it.

Bear aimed his vehicle at the sidewalk and lunged out of it, not waiting for it to stop. He sprinted to the fallen man, keeping well away from his arms. He was aware of blood streaming down his face. Just a crease. I’ve been hit harder. The biker had gotten himself free from his vehicle and was attempting to rise when Bear’s kick felled him.

‘FREEZE!’

Bear wasn’t the one who shouted. He raised his hands and turned to see several cops pointing their guns at him and the biker. Cruisers raced up the street and blocked traffic in either direction. Above the sound of the sirens, the cops’ shouting, Bear heard throbbing. The sound of several engines. Bikes.

Six bikes swept past on West 1st Street, their riders turning curiously at the spectacle on South Olive Street. They didn’t slow and when a few cops looked their way, raced away.

‘Get their license plates,’ Bear yelled at the cops.

‘DON’T MOVE. DON’T TALK. DROP YOUR GUN.’

 

 

It was very late in the night by the time Bear was released. His graze wound had stopped bleeding and while it itched, he resisted the urge to scratch it. Hall’s eyes moved to the wound, but he made no comment, no quip. Bear liked that about the chief of police. No wasted words. It reminded him of Carter. Hall had listened silently while he gave his statement and rubbed his chin thoughtfully when Bear had finished.

‘Why just one biker? The Zetas like to attack in force.’

‘Those other bikers who went past, were probably shooters too. The gunman was ahead of them. He probably figured Cardovo was with me and decided to shoot. The other bikers realized I was alone. They held back.’

Hall tossed it around in his mind for a while and shrugged. ‘We’ll ask him. Again. You punctured his leg, but otherwise he’s not damaged. He isn’t talking though. Wants a lawyer. None of my men took plates of the other riders. They didn’t believe you.’ He didn’t apologize. None was needed. His stubble rasped when he scratched his jaw as he made to speak and stopped himself.

‘What?’ Bear asked.

‘We showed the pictures of some of the Wilshire attackers to some Zeta snitches we have. They swear those dudes aren’t from the gang. This biker, he isn’t from L.A. His English is good. Very good. But I can’t place his accent. It’s neutral.’

Bear flexed a shoulder and rose and stretched. ‘You believe those snitches? Why would they admit the hitters were Zeta members. That accent, it could be anything. Maybe nothing. One time, a shooter came after me. Turned out he had studied a year at Yale.’

‘What happened to him?’ Hall asked absently.

‘He died,’ Bear grinned mirthlessly and stifled a yawn. ‘Zetas. Not Zetas. I don’t care. Just one more night, and Cardovo’s all yours. Where’s he?’

Hall pointed in the direction of the hallway outside his office. ‘In an empty office. Snoring, like he hasn’t a care in the world.’

‘Well, he doesn’t, does he?’ this time Bear’s grin was genuine. ‘He’s got the LAPD protecting him.’

 

 

Bear spent the rest of the night in the headquarters, curled up on a shabby couch in a cubicle. The springs protested at his weight, but they held. He rose and freshened in a bathroom when day broke and brought with it a change of shift.

His Tahoe was back in the parking lot, driven by some cop. He considered taking a cab, or renting another vehicle. Decided against. They seem to know where I am at any time. What good will another vehicle do?

He drove back to the apartment Chloe had rented and in its emptiness, he removed his shoes and clothes. He inspected his footwear first. Running a knife through the soles and splitting them. No tracking device. Vibram soles. Nothing else.

He turned to his clothing. Nothing in the seams, linings, or the pockets. He fingered the plastic buttons on his shirt and wondered if they could have any device in them. I’m being paranoid. No one was near my clothing or my shoes. Nevertheless, he crushed the buttons.

He ripped the plastic off a new pair of trousers and donned them. A linen shirt went over his broad shoulders. New socks and new shoes completed his attire. He made some calls, returned the SUV and rented another vehicle from another agency.

He had been in reactive mode all along, ever since he had taken the assignment. It was time to ask questions. Time to check out what Hall had said.

 

 

He drove downtown and went to a storage provider, one of those that rented out lockers. He went to his stainless steel box and removed a duffel bag. It was heavy and clinked dully as he swung it over his shoulder. The bag contained spare handguns, mags, a hunting knife, and various other handy tools.

Next stop was Vermont Alley, specifically a two-mile strip that bordered Westmont and Vermont Vista, a stretch that was also known as Death Valley. It had one of the highest concentrations of crime, a lot of it murder, in Los Angeles.

Bear drove up in his battered Ford, a car he had specifically chosen for its dilapidated look, and parked just off the avenue and proceeded to an apartment complex on West 92nd Street. He looked back at the Ford and wondered if he would see it intact when he returned. Wheels and hubcaps had been known to disappear in the neighborhood, which was why he had chosen a sad-looking vehicle.

The apartment complex, a glorified term for a pale, two floor building that looked like a box, was said to house one Enrique Gomez. Gomez was a senior gangbanger in the Zetas and was known to be close to Simca. It was rumored that he ran the gang by proxy for the imprisoned leader. One of the calls Bear had made had been to an informer in the gang whom he had cultivated. That informer had made more calls and had reluctantly come back with Gomez’s whereabouts.

‘If it’s so easy to find out where Gomez is,’ Bear had asked in bemusement when the informer had given him the address, ‘why haven’t the cops acted?’

‘You stupid, man?’ the snitch had laughed scornfully. ‘You got that address only because you saved my life that one time. Anyone else asks for the address, he’s a dead man. What’re the cops going to collar Gomez for? For knowing Simca?’ the snitch snorted.

 

 

Bear stepped aside to let a mom, her young daughter in tow, pass him on the narrow stairs. He was heading up, she was going down, the young girl looking round-eyed at him. White men weren’t often seen in the neighborhood, let alone in the building. White men of his size, were even rarer. The mother too paused on the landing and turned to look back at him, but didn’t say anything. Maybe it was his size. Or the obvious bulge underneath his linen jacket.

Gangbangers lounged in the hallway, as he approached Gomez’s apartment. They stared at him, red-eyed, their saggers coming to their knees, their handguns visible.

 

 

‘You lost, white boy?’ one of them taunted him. A ripple of laughter spread through the corridor. Hoods gathered around him and in front of him, forcing him to halt.

‘He’s got a nice, tight ass,’ another sniggered. More laughter. It died when a gangbanger thrust forward and eyed him.

‘You got business here, man? Or you a tourist?’ the hood questioned Bear with authority.

Maybe someone close to Gomez. ‘I’m here to see Gomez,’ Bear returned his stare. The trick was not to show fear. That came easy to Bear. Walking into a Zeta stronghold was a piece of cake compared to storming a terrorist cell in the Hindu Kush Mountains.

‘Gomez? There’s no one here by that name. Turn your tail and get lost, white boy.’

‘He’ll kill you if he finds out you didn’t let me pass.’

A split second of silence followed and then curses rang out and guns were reached for. The hood held his hand up and quietened the gangsters. ‘You talk tough, white boy. Is there any bite behind that bark?’

Bear went closer, intruding in the gangbanger’s personal space, keeping eye contact. ‘Easy enough to find out. Remember this. Your men might kill me. But I’ll get you first. Then Gomez will kill the rest of you.’

‘Who are you, white boy?’

Bear grinned. It wasn’t a smile he used on friends. ‘I’m the one you are hunting. I am Cardovo’s protector.’

A babble of voices broke out, silenced by the raised hand again.

‘We want Cardovo dead. But we ain’t hunting you, white boy.’ The hood came to a decision and at a secret gesture, the men behind him parted to let him and Bear pass.

He knocked on a door and when a voice answered, opened it and let Bear enter. Three men were sprawled on a long couch, watching a soap on TV. One man in the center raised his eyebrows, ‘What’s up homie? Who’s the ass?’

‘White boy says he’s Cardovo’s man. That we gunning for him. He wanted to meet you.’

The hood tossed the remote to another man and rose. He was lean, tattooed, and carried a permanent sneer on his face. ‘That true, dude? You wanted to meet Gomez?’

Gomez. In the third person. Like he’s royalty. Maybe he is, in this neighborhood.

‘Yeah. I’m Bear. You want to kill me. Here I am.’

The Zetas didn’t kill Bear. They didn’t even hurt him. Gomez heard him out and made more calls. ‘Maybe I should just plug you,’ he drilled Bear with his eyes while he waited for a call to be returned.

‘You can try.’

‘You act tough, white boy.’

‘I am tough.’

Gomez turned his head and listened when his phone rang and grunted once.

‘Sorry, dude. We ain’t responsible.’ His lips rose to display yellow teeth. ‘That’s the right word? Responsible? We saw all that going down on TV, but we didn’t do it. Simca didn’t order it. He ordered the first hit on that house. But the cops hit back hard. Simca asked us to lie low after that.’

‘None of those gangbangers were yours?’

‘No.’

‘Why are you telling me all this? So freely.’

Gomez laughed loudly. ‘You’ve got cojones, white boy. Simca likes that.’

The laughter disappeared as quickly as it had come. ‘You don’t know Simca, boy. Once he comes out, this city will burn. Cardovo will die. We’ll get him our way. Not like this. Shooting in the street. It’s bad for business. Simca is smart. He is a businessman. Protect the business first. Cardovo?’ he snapped his fingers. ‘Tell him he’s a dead man walking.’

Gomez flicked his hand insolently, ‘Get going, white boy. Before I change my mind.’

The gangbangers’ laughter followed Bear as he left the apartment building.

 

 

Gomez was telling the truth, Bear concluded as he wolfed down a burrito and drained a bottle of soda. No reason for him to lie. Hall was onto something. Who are these attackers?

Several phone calls and meetings later, with various snitches and people who worked on the dark side, Bear was no closer to finding the truth. He thought of letting Hall know, but decided against it. He didn’t know if the LAPD was compromised and didn’t want to show his hand.

At six pm, Hall texted him. All done. Collect your package.

The DA was beaming and Hall was nearly smiling when Bear reached the LAPD headquarters. ‘Take Cardovo. Show him the sights. Whatever he wants. Bring him back tomorrow,’ the chief of police waved a hand at the principal. ‘He’s done good today.’

 

 

‘We’re staying in the same apartment your friend rented?’ Cardovo seemed to be eager, excited, when he joined Bear in the Ford.

‘Yeah. So far no one has attacked us there,’ Bear chuckled. ‘What do you want to do, first?’

‘Nothing. Let’s head back. I want to go to the top of the building. To the roof. Look at the stars. Tomorrow will be a new day. I’ll be free.’

‘You are free now, sir.’

A fleeting expression crossed Cardovo’s face and his lips tightened when Bear looked in his direction. He kept silent while Bear drove back and hastened to the door when Bear stopped in the parking lot. Cardovo flipped through TV channels aimlessly while Bear laid out a simple meal for them.

‘You okay if I shower first?’ Bear asked him

‘Go ahead.’

Bear felt like a new man when he came out, toweled himself dry, and went to the living room. He stopped short when he saw it was empty.

‘Cardovo?’

No reply. The principal wasn’t in the kitchen, nor was he in the bedrooms. Bear drew his gun and checked the apartment again. No Cardovo. I didn’t hear any noise. No shots. No yelling. If they grabbed him, it was the quietest operation I’ve seen. Whoever they are.

He raced to the front door and hurled himself sideways and crouched when it opened. Cardovo stepped through and stopped abruptly when he saw Bear’s Glock pointed at him.

‘Where have you been?’ Bear rasped, motioning for the principal to shut the door.

‘A walk,’ Cardovo stammered. ‘Just a walk. I wanted some fresh air.’

‘You should have told me before going. You are still in danger. People are still gunning for you.’ No need to tell him about the Zetas. That’s something I’ll bring up with Hall.

‘I’m going to shower,’ Cardovo replied sullenly and slammed the bathroom door behind him without waiting for Bear’s reply.

 

 

Bear filled dinner glasses with water and waited for Cardovo. The principal was taking an unusually long time; he was usually a quick bather. Maybe he wants to show how angry he is.

Bear could wait. He turned on the TV and turned it off when no program was of interest to him. In the quiet of the apartment, only the beating of water in the shower was audible.

Until something buzzed.

Bear patted his pockets and brought out his phone. It wasn’t buzzing. He looked around puzzled, trying to locate the source. There was no other phone in the apartment. Cardovo’s cell was dismantled and in his duffel. He double checked. Yeah, it was there. Battery. Simcard. Nothing buzzing.

He went to the first bedroom. The sound wasn’t coming from it.

The second bedroom was Cardovo’s. The buzzing grew louder and seemed to come from the bed. Bear grew uneasy. He cocked his head. The shower was still running. He approached the bed, removed a pillow, and there lay a vibrating phone.

He looked at it in disbelief. He was sure there had been no other cells in the house. He checked twice every day. He had checked on entering the house. Where did this one come from? The cell stopped buzzing and its screen flashed signaling a text message.

Bear picked up the cell and thumbed a button to bring up the text. We are coming. Be ready.

He frowned, thinking hard. A shock coursed through him when that thing that had been nagging, burst forth as if on cue. The jigsaw fell into place. Now, it all made sense. The attacks. Gomez’s denial. The hitters’ utter disregard for civilian casualties. He whirled to the door at a sound. Dropped his hand away from his Glock at what he saw.

Cardovo, pointing a gun at him.

‘You figured it out too late.’