The Ninja glided as smoothly as a snake as it cut past the ride in front and approached the SUV.
The driver heard it approaching and half-turned.
His mouth opened to yell a warning shout when Cutter shot him in the right shoulder and followed that with a round to his chest.
He sprang off the bike and let it crash to the ground. A large stride to the SUV, whose front door was open, moving with liquid ease, a tall, dark-clad figure filled with lethal intent and deadly capability as drivers around him honked, several vehicles swerved around and passed, while a few stopped to unload their occupants, who watched in horror.
Cutter paid them no attention. He was in his zone as details registered automatically.
Driver door open. A passenger, recovering swiftly from shock, reaching for a rifle between his legs. Two men in the backseat. Covarra and Salazar. Their mouths open, eyes narrowing.
He shot the passenger in the shoulder and threw a tear-gas grenade into the vehicle. Slammed the door shut and kicked the passenger door back when Salazar tried to escape. He shot into the vehicle’s base deliberately and ran behind the rear and caught Covarra just as he fell out of the vehicle, coughing, tears streaming down his face.
‘Why did you kill Arnedra and Vienna?’ he hissed coldly as he jammed his Glock against the man’s neck. Time was running out. Cops could show up any moment. The hitters from the other Land Rovers would approach.
He shook the gang boss hard when Covarra raised his face uncomprehendingly.
‘THOSE WOMEN IN THAT BEVERLY HILLS HOUSE. WHY DID YOU KILL THEM? WHO RAPED THEM? WHO PULLED THE TRIGGER?’
He repeated it in Spanish and pressed his gun tighter against Covarra’s neck.
‘Who … they …’ the Street Front leader flailed with his arms as he drew gulps of air. ‘I … didn’t—’
‘YOU HAD A SHOOTOUT WITH SOME OTHER GANG. YOU LEFT THEM THERE.’
‘WHICH WOMEN?’ Covarra roared back as he regained his strength. ‘YOU!’ He stabbed a finger at Cutter’s chest. ‘DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN—’
He broke off with a shriek when his finger was twisted in a merciless grip and snapped.
Cutter turned him around and used him as a shield to walk back to his bike. Spotted the approaching bangers. Shot at their feet, making them dive away. Someone screamed. Rubber burned and engines whined as vehicles came to sudden stops.
Cutter didn’t stop moving. He lashed out at the Land Rover’s door, which was opening. It slammed back and caught Salazar in the face.
He sent Covarra crashing against the vehicle, upturned his bike in a flash and climbed on it.
He threw a phone at the bangers’ boss. ‘CALL ME,’ he ordered. ‘I WANT THE KILLERS AND THE RAPISTS. AND IF YOU ORDERED THEIR DEATHS, I WILL COME FOR YOU.’
He revved and the Ninja shot past the Land Rover. The first convoy vehicle to his left, Limon’s Ford, buckled into its rear. Shattered windows and steam. Ugly skid marks on the road.
Movement!
Two hitters came around the front, their guns raised. Cutter straightened his gun arm and fired in a continuous stream at them, jammed his gun down his jacket when they fell behind him, and weaved through the crowd of vehicles at the front.
He swerved momentarily when something slammed into his back with the force of a tree trunk. His armor had taken one of the hitter’s shots. He recovered his balance, and then he was away, hanging a left on East Sixth, taking a right at Margaret Avenue, and then opening up the throttle.
Cops will have been called. They’ll have choke points.
He had prepared for that. He took turns at dizzying speed, cutting illegally through red lights and racing until he wheeled into the parking lot of an enormous self-storage center in East Los Angeles.
A truck at the far end, permanently broken down, was his destination. No other vehicles nearby, since the parking spaces were inconveniently located. He knew the security cameras didn’t work. He had jammed them with an EMP blast before heading to Hubbard.
He parked behind the vehicle, removed the HK in its leather case, and slung it across his shoulder. Cracked the drone’s screen with his feet and tossed the largest pieces onto the bike.
He reached beneath the truck and grabbed a can of lighter fluid he had stowed there. Sprayed it liberally over the Ninja and set it alight.
He hustled to the Tahoe he had parked in front of the truck and dumped his helmet and jacket in its trunk. The HK went into the passenger foot well. Nine minutes after attacking Covarra, he was driving out of East LA.
He switched cars on Wilshire, where he had parked his Land Cruiser. He drove it out and headed to Lake Hollywood Drive, parked, and hiked up the Burbank Peak Trail with just a backpack and his Glock.
He cut away from the tourist hiking paths and took a lesser known track to climb up to a spot he knew from his previous visits. Underneath the overhang of a tree, near the crumbling cliff face.
Santa Monica Mountains spread out, views of Burbank and Hollywood, and the orange sky over LA above.
He stayed there until it went dark and lit a fire. He changed into a spare set of clothes and burned his attack outfit and disguise until they turned to ash. Gathered and blew them over the cliff.
He ate a cold dinner and thought back to the attack.
Had he left any traces of himself?
The Durango was still on Hubbard. I’ll recover that later. It was untraceable in any case.
He was sure the cops couldn’t place him at the scene. His cell phone would show he was elsewhere. Covarra won’t go to the LAPD. He’s wanted by them. There’s no way he’ll turn to the cops.
The gang leader’s expression stayed with him, however.
He was surprised when I asked him about the killing.
He considered that as he chewed slowly and the night turned colder.
Was it possible that the LA Street Front wasn’t involved?
Does it matter? he thought savagely. If I can find out who triggered it, I can track back to the killer and the shot-caller. Their gun was at the scene. Find who triggered it, and I’ll get to the killer.
He wrapped up the remains of his dinner, scattered dirt over his tracks and ghosted down the mountain.
He could have killed Covarra and Salazar, but that hadn’t been his objective. He wanted confessions and the perpetrators. He had always known grabbing the gang boss would be impossible to carry off in the street. Hence the attack the way he had staged it.
His face turned grim, hard, as he recalled Cruz’s words, what Vienna and Arnedra had undergone. He was one man, and chances were high he would get killed.
Not before I get some answers, he vowed. I won’t let up. I will keep coming until Covarra uses that phone and calls me.