Major Gabriella Canto lay facedown, sweating against the plastic gurney in the back of an ambulance while a pair of medics clucked over the wound in her leg. Her phone pressed to her ear, she winced and gritted her teeth while she waited for Sergeant Perez to answer her call.
The medics wanted to take her to the hospital, but she forbade it, demanding to stay on the scene until officers she trusted arrived to take custody of the bodies. There was too great a risk that Guerra or someone like him would swoop in and make the bodies and any evidence associated with them disappear. She had little sway over what the medics did or did not do, but the fleshy woman in charge looked as though her shift had been too long and tiring to argue with a blood-spattered major from the National Police.
Canto asked them to leave the rear doors open while they cleaned her wound, saying that the air-conditioning made her shiver. In truth, she wanted to keep an eye on the scene. She’d been clearheaded enough to use her phone to take photographs of the firearms and blades before securing them with two baby-faced PNP officers named Hernandez and Corte, who came in two-up on a motorcycle. Corte, a smallish female riding pillion on the bike, took charge of the weapons, made sure they were clear, and stuffed them in a locking side case. First on the scene, the two officers continued to guard the area until investigators and crime scene technicians arrived. Someone had tried to murder one of their own.
Canto grimaced at a stabbing pain as the overworked medics cleaned and bandaged her wound. She’d asked them to suture it on the spot, but they’d only chuckled dryly and reminded her that they were not in a war zone—or worse yet, Colombia. She would get sutures as soon as she let them take her to the hospital.
Finally, Sergeant Perez answered, recognizing her as the caller.
“Major,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“Fredi!” She choked back a relieved sob, chalked it up to the adrenaline, and gave him a thirty-second rundown of the attack, along with her location.
“I am in my car,” he said. “Ten minutes away with traffic.”
“Good,” she said. “I need someone here I can trust.”
“Who could be behind this?” he asked, dumbfounded.
“I am not sure,” she said.
“But you have some idea . . .”
“Of course.”
“It has something to do with the raid,” Perez said. “A relative wanting revenge?”
“Possible,” she said. “But I have other suspicions.”
“Gue—”
“Do not say the name,” she snapped, cutting him off. “We’ll talk about this more when you arrive.”
“Forgive me for not asking earlier,” Perez said. “But are you all right, patrona?”
“A bit shaken up.” She stifled another sob, cursing herself. “And a small knife wound. It’s worse than I hoped for, but not nearly as bad as it could have been.”
Her shot beneath the big guy’s chin had been a fatal one, but the razor-sharp fillet blade had speared her through the calf when he fell.
“The blade missed any major arteries or tendons,” Canto said, “but cut a chunk of flesh that was, according to the medic, the size of a decent filet mignon.”
“That’s not good,” Perez said.
“I’ll be fine with a few stitches.”
“And a possible skin graft,” the lead medic chimed, eavesdropping on Canto’s half of the conversation.
Canto ignored that. She had no time for a lengthy hospital stay. “The commissioner is en route,” she said to Perez.
“Who called him?” Perez said, surprised.
“I did,” Canto said. “He is our boss.” She glanced over her shoulder at the medics, who were both listening to every word, though they pretended not to be. Back to Perez. “Just get here as quickly as you can.”
Perez arrived first. Guerra had been with his mistress, Josefina, when Canto called him, so he had farther to drive.
Canto asked the two medics to step out and give her a moment of privacy with her bagman. The older female raised her eyebrows up and down and gave Perez the once-over.
“We cannot leave you two alone in the ambulance,” she said.
“This is official police business,” Canto said, leaving no room for argument. “Give us some privacy.”
It was bluster and the medic knew it. She didn’t move until Canto promised to let them take her to the hospital the moment she finished speaking to her sergeant.
“Five minutes,” the medic said, and climbed down the steps of the ambulance with a grunt.
“You need to watch yourself, Fredi,” Canto whispered as soon as the doors slammed shut and they were alone. She was still on her stomach, which would have made her feel vulnerable around anyone else.
“I will, patrona.” Perez gave a sad shake of his head and moved to the foot of the gurney. He clucked softly as he perused her wound. “That looks much worse than you described it over the phone. I once found a man who had been dead in his apartment for three days. Left with no one to feed him, his pet dog got hungry and . . . Well, your leg looks like that . . .”
“Thank you for that lovely image,” Canto said. “Now move back up here where I can see you, and listen to me. I am serious. For all we know, whoever is behind this could be planning an attack on you as well.”
“Are you sure this was not a random mugging?”
“One of them called me his ‘little Major Gabilita,’ ” Canto said. “They knew my name and rank and where I would be running.”
“You will need to vary your routines,” Perez said.
“And you will, too, Fredi,” Canto said. “Something is going on here. Something very bad.”
Outside, a car door slammed amid the honk of passing traffic. Commissioner Guerra began shouting orders to everyone on the scene—a seagull, flapping in with a loud squawk and shitting all over everything.
Still on her belly, Canto reached out and grabbed Perez by the tail of his shirt. “Listen to me, my friend. I do not know who we can trust. What I do know . . . What I would bet my life on, is that these men I shot tonight are connected with the men from the San Miguelito raid.”
Commissioner Guerra’s voice grew louder as he approached the medics waiting outside and demanded to know where his wounded officer was.
“And I would bet something else,” Canto whispered. “All three of those dead men were well acquainted with LA PULGA—the Flea. Maybe even on his payroll.” She gave Perez a playful smack on the leg. “Now quickly, take out your notepad before Guerra opens that door, and act as though I am giving you something important to do.”