Cutter parked his Durango on Clarence Street, between two refrigerated trucks. He used the cover to outfit himself. The Glock went into a holster at his waist, the Benchmade into a thigh-strapped sheath. Spare magazines in his pockets.
He fastened the suicide vest around himself carefully and held the wired button in his left palm. Depressed it with his thumb and applied tape over it to seal it in position.
He was in the same sideburns look he had used when he had attacked Covarra on his bike. He won’t recognize me in any other disguise.
He removed his phone, wallet, every other belonging, and dropped them in the Durango. He locked the vehicle and walked towards the rendezvous.
He felt empty, the way he always did when he was in or heading toward action. He knew there were only two possible outcomes to the night.
I’ll either be dead, or I’ll know what happened that night in Beverly Hills.
Cutter saw the first sentry when he entered Rio Street from Seventh. The entire neighborhood was an industrial area. Packing companies, cold-storage outfits for meats, warehouses, workshops, automotive bodyshops.
The guard stood arrogantly in the center of the street as he approached, holding an AR-15 in full view of whoever passed. There was no one else but Cutter on the road, however.
‘Stop,’ the banger commanded. ‘Spread your hands out.’
Covarra’s here, Cutter thought in satisfaction. Street Front wouldn’t have this kind of security if he wasn’t.
He drew his Glock with blinding speed and lunged forward to jam it against the stunned hood’s mouth.
‘Stand back,’ he snarled. ‘No one touches me until I am in front of your boss.’
‘But—’
‘Call him. Tell him that’s my condition. Otherwise, I walk away.’
Covarra wants me as badly as I want to meet him. He won’t let go of this opportunity.
The shooter stood undecided for a moment before he cursed, turned his head away and made a call.
‘Go,’ he ordered and stood aside. ‘No tricks. I’ll be watching you.’
Cutter walked past him as another banger came up from behind a car and watched him balefully. More shooters appeared, lounging, alerted by his presence. None of them accosted him. He kept his left hand down his body, the sleeve of his jacket covering his palm. He would reveal his trump card only at the last moment.
Lasko slammed his palm against the wheel and cursed in frustration as the truck in front of him reversed for a U-turn.
‘THERE’S NOT ENOUGH ROOM!’ he yelled out of his window and got the driver’s upraised middle finger.
He thought of backing up and taking a different route and shook his head when he saw the long line of vehicles behind him, many of whom had the same idea. There was no point in leaving one congested street to go to another.
He waited, conscious of the time passing. Hoped that Covarra would hang around till he got there and called the cavalry.
Cutter got to the intersection and spotted the rendezvous immediately. A bunch of armed gangsters stood in front of an open door. Graffiti on the outside walls that he couldn’t read.
He stumbled inside when someone shoved him. Took in the industrial look of the warehouse automatically. Shooters lined against the aluminum-sheeted walls. Tube lighting above. The smell of sweat and body odors. Two men, about twenty feet away from him, one of whom was grinning triumphantly.
Covarra and Salazar.