Cutter returned to his accommodations on Sycamore Avenue. Showered and applied a fake nose and cheek pads. A brown wig over his dark hair. Contacts to change his eyes to a light blue. Transparent glasses to give a faintly academic air.
He put on the armor, a lightweight kind that only a few covert operatives had access to, and donned a shirt over it. He tucked it in his jeans and wrapped the waist holster across his belt. A thin jacket was the last garment, the buttons of which split open easily to enable a quick draw. Spare magazine in his pocket, thin, transparent gloves on his hands, and he was ready.
Recon before attack.
Blue Goose was on the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Virgil Avenue. A low-slung bar that was hopping, music throbbing and spilling out onto the busy streets, signboard flashing on its roof.
Cutter parked in a vacant space and fed the meter as he checked out the entrants. Mixed race, mixed age. No particular demographic was prominent. No bangers sporting guns or tattoos. That would be bad for business.
He walked around the bar. It fronted both the main streets, and to its rear was an unnamed alley that ran a long way down to the intersection with Lexington Avenue. A tall iron fence at the rear that closed off the backyard of the bar. That could be a delivery entrance. As he watched, the back door opened. A splash of light and music spilled into the quiet alley and a man emerged. Chef, taking a breather. The man fumbled in his pockets, came out with a cigarette, lit it, inhaled and blew out with a sigh.
Cutter ghosted around the alley, noting the two cameras at the back, and joined the line of entrants at the front.
The interior was warm, dark curtains hanging from the ceiling to muffle the sounds of the pounding beat. A Prohibition-style bar to his left, at which were stools and a crush of people. A stretch of dining tables spaced out to his right. At the far end was a small stage with a keyboard, a drum set and speakers. No performers on it.
He went to the bar and ordered his drink. Found an empty table and settled in to watch. Drew out his phone and scrolled on it occasionally, as if he were reading it.
The restrooms were behind a curtained partition to his eleven-o’clock. After an hour, he went down the passage and checked them out. Beyond them was the kitchen and a passage that opened around the bar for the servers to bring food through.
No gangbangers in sight.
They came at twelve am.
Four of them, with a distinctive gang swagger. Loose shirts, tattooed arms, low-riding jeans, baseball caps at an angle, and jewelry.
He thought they looked familiar, looked similar to some of the members’ photographs that Matteo and Cruz had shown him.
One of them yelled raucously at the bartender, who waved and gestured at the stage.
None of them is Covarra or Salazar. Is that where they’re going to sit?
That’s where the heavies arranged themselves. They brought out a folding table from the back of the elevated area, a couch and two chairs, and sprawled on it like they owned the place. A server brought over drinks and two bowls of nachos. They dipped into their food and swigged from their bottles, ignoring the rest of the patrons.
Need to confirm who they are. The cops had shown him several images, and he could be mistaken in recognizing them.
Cutter got his chance half an hour later.
One of the men got to his feet, pulled up his Tee and scratched his belly. The butt of a waist-tucked gun was visible even at this distance. He belched and stumbled toward the bathroom.
He was washing his face when Cutter joined him at the line of sinks. He stumbled and crashed into the man. Got hold of his Tee and yanked down hard, making it look like he was regaining his balance.
There it was. The tattoo on the neck that identified LA Street Front thugs. A man lying on a sidewalk.
‘S’rry, bud,’ Cutter slurred and let go of the hood, who cursed and knocked his hand away.
Cutter raised his palms in a peace gesture and went to the last sink, where he washed up and staggered out. He returned to the bar, paid up and went out quickly.
Brought his Land Cruiser to the front of the bar, where he parked illegally and made to look like he was arguing on the phone.
The bangers came out at two am. Laughing, backslapping and high-fiving. Bathroom Man leered at a couple of women who were leaving too. They stiffened but made no comment and hurried away, which amused the thugs even more.
Cutter fired up his ride and followed them at a distance. Watched them climb into an SUV that was parked in a neighboring house’s drive and fell behind them when they hit the Hollywood Freeway. They went southeast, through downtown, where they exited at the East LA Interchange and entered Boyle Heights.
Dense neighborhood. Public housing projects. Multiple gangs in the area, where often one side of a street belonged to one outfit, the other to another. All of them in perpetual conflict with one another. Tagging, firebombing, drive-by shooting, racial harassment—this locality had seen it all.
Crime had reduced in recent years, the graffiti had disappeared in many places, but the bangers were there. Hispanic crews clashed with black outfits. Several white supremacy gangs had emerged as well.
It was worse before. At one time, bullets had replaced hope. He knew this, because he had spent several months undercover in Los Angeles, infiltrating a violent gang that had links to terrorism. One of the redacted missions in his military file.
He slowed further when the SUV’s tail lights flared and it came to a stop. Bathroom Man climbed out and spoke through the window at his crew. He fist-bumped them and approached a house as the vehicle departed.
Cutter drove down the street. Oregon Street. Single-family homes. Trash bins on the sidewalk. A kid’s bicycle leaning against a lamp post. Lines of cars parked on the street. A few houses were lit from within, but most were dark and there was no street traffic other than his ride.
The dim glow of the city bathed the neighborhood as he parked several houses away and walked back to Bathroom Man’s house.
A spiked metal fence, a small gate, a chipped concrete walkway, a lawn that was once green but now was dirt and dead plants. Several plastic bags, fast-food containers littered near the wall.
Looks like a one- or two-bedroom house.
He had to question the banger, find out where Covarra and his deputy hung out. He jumped over the fence and crouched low as he went to the nearest window.
Living room. A couch. Bathroom Man on it, idly thumbing a remote, surfing channels on TV. Alone. He went down the side of the house. A dark window. Could be a bedroom. He came up against the rear fence and a pile of trash that he dared not navigate. Any sound will alert him.
He had returned to the front to check out the other side of the house when the scream stopped him.