CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 

The blast wiped the ugly off Jacobo's face and splattered it around like graffiti from a tagger's spray can. So much for Mr. Bag Man. He staggered backwards, canceled from the neck up, then his fat carcass toppled over and sprawled across the floor, his trench coat ripped and smoking.

That's all it took to set it off.

Castel had come out of nowhere. He was like twenty feet away when he pulled the trigger and the spread knocked Matthews, Chang and the CHP dyke off their feet. Heberto turned around and collided with a fed, both of them trying to get out of the line of fire, and Deacon blundered into the table, his flowered shirt peppered with burns. The rest of the goons hit the deck or took off running in all directions.

Castel fired again, wasting a cop.

"Andate al carajo! Puto pajero!"

I dived to the floor next to Brown, covering my head with my hands. Arn dropped beside me, wild-eyed and panting, then somebody landed on top of him, rolled over and took off running, stepping on my back.

Castel pumped and fired, yelling in Spanish. The kick knocked him backwards and he was still falling when one of the SWAT goons raised his shotgun and blew him into the stacks. The gun went off next to my ear and this giant bell started clanging in my head. Castel smacked into a crate, his glass eye flying through the air, then his buddies flipped out and started shooting at the cops in front of the office.

It was complete insanity.

The locos were all around us, just blasting away. They'd been hiding in the stacks – dodging the cops, squirming into crawl spaces – when Castel freaked out and shot Jacobo. We were completely surrounded, but the warehouse was full of cops and spooks and nobody was safe.

Matthews sprawled on the floor with his hands over his head, his trench coat scorched and tattered. Chang and the CHP dyke crouched beside him, shooting into the stacks with these giant magnums that sounded like cap guns a mile away. They both looked bruised and bloody.

Crates splintered. A light exploded in the rafters. The SWAT goon who'd shot Castel caught a round and fell on the table with a steaming dent in his vest. The table collapsed and he rolled across the floor, clinging to his shotgun, then he jumped to his feet and staggered towards the office, but another round knocked his helmet off and he crashed into the wall. The office windows shattered, venetian blinds flying apart like a gust had blown them off their runners.

Arn crawled over to the Lexus, trying to find some cover.

Brown was shouting in my face, but he sounded like a mouse squeaking on the other side of the planet. Static hissed in my ears and I could feel something warm trickling down my neck. He grabbed my sleeve, yelling like a maniac in a silent movie, then he dragged me over to the car, crawling beside me with the suitcase full of cash and the briefcase with all the documents that were going to win him the Pulitzer Prize. Goons were running everywhere, scrambling for safety. I saw a muzzle flash in the stacks and one of them landed in front of me with a hole in his dripping head.

We squirmed under the Lexus and I cracked my skull on the drive shaft, but I never felt a thing. The warehouse must've sounded like a demolition derby in the middle of World War III, but all I could hear was this muffled thumping mixed up with distant screams. Rounds hit the car, smashing the rearview, sparking off the hub caps, punching holes in the door. We crowded together and gaped at all the chaos.

A spotlight exploded and muzzles flashed in the darkness of the stacks. Deacon and Heberto had taken cover behind the wreck of the table and they were shooting at the cops or somebody – I couldn't tell. They must've found their guns or taken them off the stiffs sprawled around them on the floor. One of Crewcut's guys crawled over to the SWAT goon lying against the wall, grabbed his shotgun, and crawled into the office. Kneeling in the doorway, he fired at the spotlights, then somebody shot him in the gut.

Arn was shouting at Brown. I rubbed my neck and saw blood on my fingers. I must have caught some buckshot. Then my hearing came back with a roar of yells and shotgun blasts that sounded like a riot in a waterfall.

"Get the money!" Arn yelled. "We got to move!"

Laser beams flickered through the smoke, spotlights sweeping across the Lexus, flaring in my eyes, jumping around like the lights from a mirrored disco ball. Feedback screeched over a bullhorn. Feds and goons and cops ran back and forth or crawled through pools of blood or took dozens of impacts and blew apart like dolls. A sub-machine gun rattled in the stacks, short bursts, a long burst – it sounded like the fight had spread through the entire warehouse. Smoke billowed from one of the aisles leading to the dock – tear gas, most likely – and I thought I saw Baldy shooting at the spotlights with a pistol. Two shotguns went off at the same time, then somebody fired a volley on our left and I saw this canister roll across the floor.

"Don't look at it!" Brown yelled. "Cover your ears!"

The canister was a black tube with orange stripes and holes on both ends. A flashbang. It rolled past a couple of dead goons and came to a stop by the table about ten feet away.

I never saw it go off. Never heard a thing.

A burst of light zapped my head and the warehouse turned into a black-and-white negative for a couple seconds. Everything came to a standstill, frozen in place like a single frame from a movie somebody had paused so they could go to the john. The blast was so loud I never heard it, but I got this dizzy rush like I was spinning in one of those gravity deals they use on astronauts, whirling like a crankshaft, faster and faster, then the ride slammed to a stop and I thought I was going to barf my guts out.

The effect only lasted a couple seconds, but it did a number on my head. The still-life faded away, then the movie started up again with a mob of SWAT goons charging into the space in front of the office. They rushed in from all sides like space aliens in body armor and gas masks, yelling and screaming, firing at everything in sight. Deacon and Heberto scrambled to get out of the way and a bunch of dazed thugs ran back and forth in total confusion, tripping over bodies, banging into crates. My eyes were burning from the tear gas. Arn coughed beside me. Brown was trying to breathe through his sleeve.

"Over here!" Arn started crawling to the other side of the car.

We squirmed under the drive shaft and the three of us huddled by the front tire, gagging from the tear gas, trying to see what was going on. Brown stared at me through a tangle of hair, his eyes bloodshot, his face smudged with dirt and oil. Arn crawled under the tirewell and stuck his head out, then he yanked it back again when a shotgun went off and a dozen goons ran by the Lexus with a pack of dogs on their heels. The locos were making their break.

"Come on!" Arn yelled. "Maybe we can make those stacks!"

We crawled out from under the car and staggered to our feet just as a couple of German Shepherds ran up snarling and snapping at our legs. Arn fell down again, rolling around on the floor. I kicked at the dog tearing at his jeans and another dog latched onto my arm and pulled me down beside him.

This buzz-saw with teeth and wet fur snapped at my face, slobbering and growling while I scrabbled around and banged its head with my fists. Brown hit the dog with his briefcase and it rolled yipping across the floor, then it jumped to its feet and attacked a fed who'd taken cover behind the Lexus. The other dog forgot about Arn and went after the cops and goons running through the fog of tear gas. Somebody screamed and I saw a loco writhing on the floor with a German Shepherd gnawing on his face. Shotguns went off and magnums boomed and glass shattered all around us.

I stumbled to my feet, shouting at Arn and Brown, then we piled into the Lexus and I ended up behind the wheel, Arn sitting beside me, Brown diving into the back. Rounds slammed into the car and one of the tires went flat. Arn ducked and Brown groveled on the back seat with the suitcase and briefcase, covering his head with his hands. I groped for the keys – Crewcut had left them in the ignition – but when I found them, the engine wouldn't start.

"Hit it!" Arn yelled. "Hit it!"

I tried again.

"Check the transmission!"

One of the side windows blew out, spraying us with glass. I screamed and Arn covered his head, yelling "Shit! Shit! Shit!" I hunched down behind the wheel, working the ignition, screwing with knobs, but I couldn't think straight with all the ringing in my ears. Even if I got the car started, there was no place to go in all that madness.

The cops had screwed up. The SWAT goons made their move a couple seconds late and most of Heberto's crew had been hiding behind the crates, so they were shielded from the flashbang. After it went off, the locos tried to get away, running out of the stacks in a crazy panic, firing their shotguns in every direction. There must have been a dozen of them and more of them poured out on the other side of the table, driven into the killing zone by the dog teams and tear gas. Crewcut's thugs had crowded together and they were trading shots with Matthew's team when the flashbang went off, then the SWAT goons made their rush and the locos ran out shooting with the dogs at their heels. Trapped inside the Lexus, I watched them collide in front of the office.

They blasted each other at point-blank range in a grisly mass panic. If they didn't have guns, the locos attacked the cops with machetes and baseball bats, and I saw feds rolling around on the floor with dogs snarling at their throats. Chang and the CHP dyke tried to get away, crouched over and firing blindly as they ran for the stacks, then a shotgun blew the dyke through the air and she crashed into a pillar, sliding down to the floor. Chang turned and fired over his shoulder, his trench coat flapping around his legs, then a round knocked him off his feet and a load of buckshot blew him against the wall by the office. A SWAT goon shot a loco, then another loco shot him, then a cop shot him and a greaseball whacked the cop with a machete and got jumped by the dogs. Blood spattered the windshield. Shadows staggered around in clouds of tear gas, tearing at each other in the glare of the spotlights.

"Go!" Arn yelled in my ear. "Goddammit, go!"

I realized that the transmission was in drive and slammed it into park. The engine started. I released the emergency brake and grabbed the wheel.

"Which way?" I checked behind us.

"Just get us out of here!"

Everywhere I looked, clouds of tear gas drifted through scenes of mayhem. Deacon and Heberto were still alive, hiding behind the wrecked table in the middle of the carnage. They ran towards the office, firing at somebody in one of the aisles, then a spotlight exploded and I saw Baldy and Crewcut huddled next to the bomb, shooting at everything that moved. Over on the left, Matthews was crawling through the bodies piled up around the table, but he jumped to his feet when the dogs attacked him and somebody blew him away with a shotgun. It was crazy. Nobody could survive out there. Deacon shot one of Crewcut's guys trapped against the wall by the office, then somebody shot Heberto and he went down, kicking and grabbing at his neck. Deacon tried to help him, but he never made it. A dozen rounds knocked him flat and the dogs jumped all over him, snapping and ripping at his throat.

"Jesus Christ!" Arn yelled. "Did you see that?"

I hit the gas, but the transmission was still in park and I was so freaked out it took forever to get it into drive. The car lurched forward and banged into a pile of crates, then I backed up and slammed into the wall by the office, Arn shouting at me the whole time. Just then, Baldy and Crewcut made a break for the stacks, crouched over and shooting blindly as they ran past the bomb. Baldy made it, but Crewcut didn't get very far. A slug punched through his chest, spinning him around, then a burst knocked him off his feet. He was trying to crawl away when a loco whacked his head off with a machete.

"Fuck!" Arn screamed.

The windshield blew out – right in my face. I yanked the wheel hard to the left, stomped on the gas and we veered across the space in front of the office, crashing into the concrete pedestal holding the bomb. A fed landed on the hood and tried to pull himself inside, but I put it in reverse and he rolled off as we squealed backwards, slamming into a stack of crates that fell on top of the car just as a burst of rounds punched into the fenders and doors. Arn dived to the floor and I crouched as low as I could, peering over the dash with blood in my eyes and this weird buzz like a giant busy signal in my head. Everybody was yelling.

I put it in drive and aimed for one of the aisles leading to the dock. We bounced over some bodies and the wreck of the table, the flat tire thumping, goons diving to get out of the way. A side window blew out. The rear window exploded. We clipped a pillar, spun to the left and crashed into the stacks, knocking over some barrels. The aisle was too narrow for the Lexus. I backed up again, the tires shrieking, and yanked the wheel to the right, cutting a reverse donut that spun us around and knocked a couple SWAT goons off their feet. The cops were shooting at us from all sides now. Another tire blew out. A slug nipped my ear.

The Lexus was a wreck: two flat tires, the windows shattered, glass all over the seats and floor. I hit the gas and made for the garage door on the other side of the warehouse, fighting the wheel as the car veered back and forth on its flats and battered suspension. Goons jumped out of the way. A cop bounced off the hood. I clipped some guy in a trench coat, plowed through a stack of crates, then burned rubber down the aisle leading to the exit.

The warehouse was swarming with lunatics – no wonder Chang had lost control. Hanging onto the wheel as I raced down the long passage, I caught these blurred images of shadows fighting in the stacks – locos running through the aisles, spooks shooting at each other in the rows of cargo. There was only one way out, but we were never going to make it.

Up ahead, the garage door was open, blocked by a squad car with flashing cherries. Cops huddled behind the barricade, shooting at the Lexus as I headed straight towards them, cursing and yelling, completely out of my mind. Bullets smacked the grille. A headlight shattered. Sparks jumped off the hood. I knew we were going to crash, but I was frozen at the wheel. Then a round hit one of the gas pumps by the door and this huge fireball surged through the passage, coming right at us.

I slammed on the brakes, but nothing happened.

Another pump exploded with a flash that torched my eyes and splattered globs of white-hot metal that landed all around us. The Lexus was skidding to the left, out of control, tires squealing as flames blew through the stacks and boiled in the rafters and burning gas slopped across the floor, then the blast wave hit us and the fireball gusted through the broken windshield. Screaming, I rammed the back of the patrol car, spinning it around, then we shot through the garage door into an alley and crashed into a row of dumpsters.

A brick wall jumped at me. Fell back again.

I bounced off the wheel, Brown slammed into the front seat and Arn flew through the busted windshield, rolling across the hood like a crash-test dummy and landing in the trash. Flames billowed around us, flapping like sheets in a tornado, then they blew themselves out and I found myself slumped over the wheel, steam gushing from the buckled hood.

We were outside the warehouse.