Cutter glanced at the screen one last time to check the locations of the hitters. All of them are armed. The one at the driveway door, however, looked relaxed. He hasn’t seen any threat from that side.
He attached the screen to his vest with Velcro strips and zipped his jacket over it. Removed a balaclava mask and put it over his head. Adjusted it over his eyes so that the transparent glasses were visible. He often used disguises to not just mask his real look but also to give something to be remembered.
He took three steps back, ran over his move in his mind, and sprinted.
With two long strides, he reached the fence. Planted his left foot high on it and vaulted it easily, with his left hand for balance.
The banger was looking right at him, his face scrunched together. Dog! He’s annoyed by its barking. That expression changed to surprise and then alarm as Cutter landed smoothly on the balls of his feet.
He lunged forward in a smooth, animal motion, as if the night parted for him. He swatted the rising rifle away easily, but retained his hold on it long enough to control the sideways movement so that it didn’t slam into the door jamb.
His Benchmade cut through the air and slid into the banger’s chest with ease as his momentum and the force of his jab got the blade to pierce skin and flesh and muscles. His left hand left the rifle and crushed the hood’s lips to muffle his warning shout. It turned to a groan when the knife retreated and jabbed several times in a blur of motion.
Cutter laid him down gently, retrieved his AR-15 and entered the house. He rested the rifle on the floor and, crouching low, moved fast inside the residence. Kitchen, dining room, and ahead, the living room. Sounds from the street. Angry and alarmed voices that had drowned out the sounds of his attack.
The banger was against the window, watching cautiously through a chink in the curtain. He stiffened suddenly, as if alerted by a reflection in the window, and threw himself to the side.
Cutter was anticipating the move. He dove at the hitter, grunted when the rifle’s hard edge slammed into his side, and then he was on top of the hood, who was punching furiously, trying to regain control of the AR-15.
Can’t let him shoot. That will alert the neighborhood. It was why he had opted for the Benchmade. He head-butted the banger savagely. Brought down the handle of his Benchmade on the hood’s forehead and was raising his hand for another blow when the scrape of a foot alerted him.
He grabbed the banger with one hand, turned on his back, getting the thug to roll on top of him, and shoved the hood away with all his strength at the two men who had entered the living room through the driveway door.
They circled the house and came that way. Must have spotted their dead friend but didn’t shoot. They want me alive.
The man he had attacked slid on the floor and made one banger stumble. Cutter powered off the floor with his left hand and struck Staggering Banger in the belly with his blade. Extracted it in a blur of motion and wrapped his left arm around the man’s neck and sent both of them heaving into the fourth hood, who was jumping away to get clear for a shot.
The three of them fell in a tangle of bodies, their weapons clattering to the floor. Cutter, on top, slashed indiscriminately with his knife until he saw the terror-stricken eyes of Fourth Hood.
‘Don’t talk. Don’t move,’ he whispered, ‘or I’ll cut your neck and let you bleed to death.’
The man nodded dumbly.
He eased up cautiously, his knife held at the ready, and rolled Staggering Man over. The thug was beyond help. Blood frothed in his mouth as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
He snapped a glance at Window Hood, who was still alive and, as he watched, lunged for a rifle. Cutter skipped a step with his right foot and pole-axed the man with a wicked kick that dropped him to the floor.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked Fourth Hood.
He raised his Benchmade menacingly when the thug didn’t respond initially.
‘Ernesto.’ The hood licked his lips.
‘Get up.’
He watched alertly as the banger stood up.
‘Your friend in the driveway—’
‘He’s dead! You killed him.’
‘You should have shot me, you had the chance.’
‘Snake wanted you alive—’
He cut himself off abruptly.
‘Shut the front door. If you shout, you’re dead.’
The banger followed his orders without resistance. He tied and gagged Window Hood and dragged Driveway Banger inside the house and closed the rear door.
‘Sit.’ Cutter pointed to a chair at the window. ‘Snake wanted me alive … who does he think I am?’
Ernesto stared at him defiantly for several moments and looked away.
No time for polite questioning, and with that thought, Cutter thrust his blade deep into the banger’s thigh and jammed his left hand over the man’s mouth to muffle his shriek.
‘I asked you a question,’ he grated, then removed his hand to let the man answer.
‘I … DON’T … KNOW … SNAKE … TOLD … US … TO … BE … ALERT … FOR … WHOEVER … COMES … AND … TAKE … HIM … ALIVE.’
Cutter knifed him in the shoulder and winced when Ernesto bit his palm in agony.
‘IT’S … TRUE …’ the banger cried.
‘Why are you here? What’s in this house?’
The hood looked away.
‘OXY!’ he shrieked when Cutter grabbed his neck and thrust the blade at his eye.
‘Where?’
‘Kitchen counter. Storage under it.’
Cutter looked at him in surprise and backtracked cautiously towards the sink. He reached behind him, felt for a door knob on the counter door and opened it. Snatched a glance and whistled in surprise at the cardboard box filled with baggies.
The counter was L-shaped, with several doors beneath its ceramic surface. He opened them all and found one more box.
He sensed Ernesto’s move before he heard it. He ducked away without looking back, caught the rushing man by his neck and slammed his face on the countertop.
Ernesto howled in pain. His second scream turned into a choking gasp when Cutter punched him in the belly.
‘You give me no choice.’ He thrust the banger into a chair and tied his wrists with cable ties. He secured Ernesto’s legs to the chair with rope he found in the kitchen.
He moved the dining table out of the way and brought out the cardboard boxes and placed them on the floor. He removed one packet and hefted it in his hand.
Mexican Oxy—he recognized the blue pills. Fentanyl that was cooked in laboratories south of the border and distributed by the cartels.
The synthetic drug was fast replacing heroin in the illegal drug trade. Each pill sells for ten to twenty dollars on the street, he mused as he inspected one baggie. He recalled Matteo’s briefing on the Street Front, which felt like it had happened years ago. Covarra’s linked to the Juarez Cartel. That’s where he gets his supply. The number of baggies suggested the house had close to a million dollars’ worth of narcotics.
‘This is your store?’ he asked the banger. ‘Where do you keep the drugs for distributing?’
Ernesto tried to stay defiant but dropped his head and nodded when Cutter moved menacingly. ‘Si,’ he mumbled.
‘Street Front’s a big gang.’ Cutter scratched his cheek as he paced the kitchen. ‘This can’t be the only warehouse you’ve got.’ He grabbed Ernesto’s hair and yanked his head up. ‘Where are the others?’
‘I DON’T KNOW,’ the banger shrieked. ‘I WATCH OVER THIS ONE ONLY.’
‘Of course, you know,’ he scoffed. ‘You’re guarding this amount of drugs, which means Covarra trusts you. You’re part of his inner circle. You’ll know where the other places are. A gang like yours doesn’t rely on just one stock point.’ He inspected his Benchmade, twisted it this way and that, to make light shine off its metal.
He surged forward suddenly towards his captive, the knife’s point held high.
Ernesto screamed and fell to the floor as he reared back with his legs.
‘STOP!’ He pleaded. ‘BOYLE HEIGHTS. FOREST AVENUE.’
‘That’s where another store is?’
‘SI, SI, THAT’S THE ONLY ONE I KNOW.’
Cutter hauled him up and slashed the blade across the front of his chest, a thin cut that oozed blood immediately.
The banger looked down in horror and then up. His mouth worked for several moments before sound emerged. ‘I DON’T KNOW OTHER PLACES. I SWEAR,’ he howled. ‘THAT’S THE ONLY ONE.’
‘Is that the same size as this one?’
‘BIGGER. MORE GUARDS.’
‘How many?’
‘I DON’T KNOW. I WENT THERE ONLY TWICE.’
Cutter sized him up. The banger was sweating, bloody, and his face was tear-streaked. The desperation in his voice was unmistakable.
He’s telling the truth.
‘Where is Covarra?’
‘I DON’T KNOW. I GET ORDERS FROM FUSE, NOT FROM HIM. I DON’T MEET HIM.’
‘Where’s Salazar?’
‘I DON’T KNOW. I SWEAR. HE CALLS ME.’
Cutter searched the hood’s pockets and found his cell phone. Checked the call log and found several incoming ones. Number withheld.
That didn’t surprise him. The Street Front hadn’t become one of the foremost gangs in the city for nothing. They probably use burners and proxies for their calls.
He tossed the phone back at the hood and searched the kitchen and the utility room and then went to the garage, where he found a can of kerosene. He doused it liberally over the packets and, as Ernesto watched wide-eyed, set them on fire.
‘Tell Covarra to call me,’ he said with a grin and disappeared into the night.