Alex Luthecker watched as the water from a single fire hose blanketed the already-soaked grey and black skeletal-remains of the “Safe Block” apartments on 108th Street in Watts. The assembly of fire trucks that had responded to the call were gone by now, save for one, the bulk of the fire caused by the RPG extinguished. A few smoldering pockets remained, giving the scene a smoky reminder of the fiery chaos that had taken place only a few hours earlier.
Yellow police tape circumvented the area, with some broken free of their moorings and floating in the breeze. Several police officers still milled about; some asking questions of passersby; others weary and bored, waiting for their long shift to end. It was just past sunrise, the morning after the attack, and Alex had not slept in over thirty-six hours.
An exhausted Yaw Chinomso slowly approached Alex from the street. “The van was found in a parking garage ten blocks from here. Other than that…I’m sorry,” Yaw said, his voice hoarse from overuse and lack of sleep.
“Camilla?” Alex asked, never taking his eyes from the smoldering remains of Winn’s vision.
“She’s fine. The baby’s fine. They’re holed up at the hotel still; Winn’s there now. Gonna keep ’em there until we get a better sense of what’s going on.”
Alex nodded, and they stood in exhausted silence.
Both men, along with Chris and Joey Nugyen, had spent the night scouring the streets for any sign of the kidnapper’s van. They had recruited several locals in the search, along with Officers Rodriguez and Coleman, once the refugees had been settled into the abandoned subway station, Metro 417.
There had been no trace of Nikki or her abductors.
“This is my fault,” Alex said to no one in particular.
“It’s no one’s fault. And don’t worry, we’ll find her,” Yaw said.
“She’s gone.”
Yaw looked at Alex.
“She’s gone and it’s all my fault,” Alex said.
Alex looked at the smoldering skeletal structures. He went over in his mind the last images, the last details, of what he’d seen. Both the dark and the distance, at the time of the abduction, had limited what he had been able to see: Two men dressed in black, their faces covered by masks. The first was five foot ten, two hundred and forty pounds. Despite his size, he moved with catlike agility and efficiency. It reminded Alex of the Mohawk ironworkers in New York, how they moved with focused effort on narrow steel beams hundreds of feet in the sky.
The first abductor was Native American.
The other attacker was six feet tall, two hundred and twenty pounds. His gait and the relative speed of his movements indicated he was in his forties and had suffered two knife wounds, one to his left thigh, and the other just above the right collarbone. He moved in strong, aggressive motions, and it was clear from the unspoken communication between the two men that the man in his forties was the leader.
It was this second man who had engineered the attack. A brief glance at the chaos, just before disappearing inside the van with Nikki, meant to Alex that this man would attempt to contact him, and soon. Alex very much wanted to meet this man. He very much wanted to meet both of these men.
The kidnappers had moved with a calm sense of urgency and were smart enough to not make eye contact with anyone. And it was clear by their rote behavior that they had abducted others before. But what kept repeating in Alex’s memory was not the machinations and patterns of the two abductors. It was the final moments he remembered of Nikki before she was gone—unconscious, helpless, being dragged into the back of the van. The images clouded his mind, blocking out and coloring the details with rage and a deep sense of guilt. His emotions clouded his objectivity and had made it difficult to concentrate and see the patterns of that moment for what they were. And the emotion he felt above all others, anger, a level of fury he had never experienced before.
“Yes. We’re going to find her,” Alex said to Yaw. “I’m going to find her. I swear it.” This was his oath against the unknown, the unknown being an unfamiliar concept. He finally turned to Yaw. “And whoever took her; whoever did this, is going to pay.” He turned and walked away.
“I don’t want to stay here,” Camilla Ramirez said in soft tones, as she gently bounced her daughter on her knee. She sat on the edge of the bed in the small Comfort Inn hotel room. Across from her, seated at the small wooden desk that was standard fair in most hotel rooms, was Winn.
“Until the situation is more secure, both Yaw and I feel it best that you remain here with Kylie.”
“What about the people on the Block?”
“I am working with the authorities to place them.”
“Immigration?”
“No. LAPD. I’ve been given assurances that none of them will be deported. In the mean time, I need you to make some phone calls. Reach out to the communities. We will place these people with their own people, no different than before. But we will have to move much more quickly now.”
“Consider it done.”
Kylie squirmed and Camilla gently stroked the infant’s face to calm her. “I can’t believe the Block is gone…”
“We will build it again.”
Kylie squawked this time, and Camilla pulled the infant close, rocking her until she drifted to sleep. “What about…?” Camilla didn’t finish. She still couldn’t believe that Nikki had been taken.
“Nothing yet. But I suspect we will be contacted soon.”
“This Lucas Parks person that everyone’s talking about. Is he behind this?”
“I believe so.”
“It’s about Alex, isn’t it?”
Winn didn’t answer right away. “I’m worried about him,” he finally said.
“Why?”
“There’s a fury in his eyes like I’ve never seen before.”
“Alex loves Nikki more than anything. If this Parks monster took her, our boy’s gonna do whatever he has to do to crush this guy and get her back.”
“I know. It’s the second part, and where it will lead to, that I fear.”
Kylie woke with a start and began to cry. “I have to feed her,” Camilla said.
“I should go,” Winn replied as he got to his feet. The old martial arts instructor eyed Camilla’s backpack and aluminum Kali sticks, the lightweight strikers specifically designed for combat, sitting next to the bed. “You’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Yaw’s coming by later with supplies. You’ll keep me posted?”
“Of course,” Winn replied.
“Winn.”
The martial arts instructor turned back to Camilla.
“Nikki’s one of ours now,” Camilla said as Kylie fussed. “I’m with Alex on this. However he wants to roll, I’m with him one hundred percent.”
“I know,” Winn replied. The young mother’s warrior instincts are still strong, he thought. “We all feel the same.”
Winn gave Camilla a hug and quick kiss on the cheek. Then he kissed Kylie’s forehead. Finally, he opened the hotel room door and carefully closed it behind him.
Winn took a deep breath before walking through the hotel courtyard and across the parking lot. His ears still vibrated with the high-pitched tinnitus caused by the explosion that literally blew him off his feet. The scratch where he hit his head on the pavement was superficial, and when the EMT’s bandaged the cut, he had refused pain medication. He suspected a concussion, but he didn’t have time to rest now. He hoped the headaches and the dizziness would go away soon.
Camilla’s hotel was less than three miles from Winn’s destination, Metro 417, and the fifty-four year old felt the walk would clear his head. Winn knew he had to place the refugees of Safe Block within the next twenty-four hours. Not only because he feared that U.S. immigration policies would deport many of these illegals, regardless of their circumstance, but also because he knew Lucas Parks had a reputation for never leaving loose ends.
Winn was sure that Parks’ actions revolved around Alex but was unsure of how much Parks knew about Alex’s capabilities. Street level intelligence on Alex would be at a relative minimum. Both Winn and Rooker had kept the details regarding Alex vague, and Winn’s students, couriers of information by trade, were sworn to secrecy. The only entity that knew as much, or potentially more, about Alex Luthecker than Winn was Coalition Properties.
Winn surmised that Parks had either an informant within the corporation or was working with them directly in some capacity. The latter possibility would explain the sudden release of Parks from prison and Parks’ immediate targeting of Nikki. It dawned on Winn that they were setting a trap for Alex. Winn hustled across the street, picking up his pace. His Kali sticks, strapped diagonally across his back, began to rattle as he broke into a jog. He was still two miles from his destination, and for the first time in his life, he wished he carried a cell phone. He had to speak to Alex before Parks did.
Alex carefully navigated the series of rough angular tunnels and switchbacks below Hill Street in downtown Los Angeles, working his way to the abandoned subway terminal of Metro 417. Yaw, who simply referred to the area as “the 417,” was right behind Alex. The men ducked low under an exposed steel beam, sticking free from the concrete like a bone from flesh, before finally stepping clear of the crumbling passageway and into the abandoned rail tunnel that led to the station. A flashlight beam immediately illuminated their faces.
“Freeze,” Officer Coleman said, his weapon trained on Alex and Yaw. He recognized the men and immediately holstered his sidearm. “Sorry about that. We just don’t know what to expect. Things are a bit chaotic right now.”
“Understood,” Alex replied. “Where’s Winn?”
“He’s still with Camilla, helping her make arrangements for the refugees. He should be back soon.”
Alex looked at Yaw.
“She’ll be fine. She’s safer where she’s at, and she can take care of herself. I was told to stick by you,” Yaw answered, before he was asked.
Alex nodded, and the men made their way down the rail tunnel toward the abandoned subway station. As they rounded the last bend of the long defunct railway, Alex took note of several graffiti tags, reclaiming this underground labyrinth for some street tribe. It made him wonder if Winn had already made arrangements for another “Safe Block.”
“We just got them fed,” Officer Rodriguez said to Alex and Yaw as the three of them looked over the thirty-eight refugees from around the world. Alex took note of the food wrappings, the piles of blankets, pillows, empty water bottles, and small bags that contained everything in the world that these people had; it could have been a refugee camp in any third world country, but it was here, in the United States—now.
Alex winced as a sharp pain shot through his head, the beginning waves of yet another headache. He knew the tremble would follow, and he fought to keep his hands from shaking, closing his eyes and trying to will away the pain and shiver. This only served to open a window in his mind for an almost precognitive set of patterns that aligned themselves as images—what he saw here, now, with the refugees and the squalor was a harbinger of things to come on a much larger scale.
“They’re not safe here,” Alex said as he braced himself against the wall with one hand. “We’re not safe here.”
“You okay?” Yaw asked.
“I’m fine.”
“The old man said to stay put until he got back,” Rodriguez said.
Approaching footsteps got everyone’s attention. They all looked as Officer Coleman who entered with a small, open package in his hand.
“It was Fed Ex’d right to the subway station. The delivery guy didn’t know a thing other than to deliver it to this address. Whoever sent it obviously knows we’re here.”
“Who’s it for?” Rodriguez asked.
“It’s for me,” Alex responded.
“He’s right,” Coleman said before he held out the package for Alex. “I opened it. I didn’t want to take a chance on what it could be, a bomb or something. It’s a phone. And a note.”
“I know,” Alex said as he took the small package and carefully emptied the contents into his hand. He recognized the cell phone as a prepaid unit, nearly untraceable if used only once and then disposed of. The note was brief and to the point: If you want to see Nicole Ellis again, hit the redial button on the phone provided at exactly 2:45pm PST.
“How do we know the phone’s not a bomb?” Officer Rodriguez asked. “How do we know, he hits the redial, it don’t blow this place to pieces?”
“It’s not a bomb,” Alex stated, knowing full well that if the device had been, it would have been four point three ounces heavier.
Rodriguez eyed Alex, wary, unsure how Alex could know all these details ahead of time with such certainty. Then he remembered how Luthecker had looked at him the first time they met, along with stories regarding the pattern reader. Luthecker spooked Rodriguez, and the young officer was suspicious as to what Alex’s motivations truly were.
“What time is it?” Alex asked, purposefully interrupting Rodriguez’s train of thought. Alex locked eyes with the young officer to make sure the man knew that he was aware of his suspicions.
“Two-forty,” Rodriguez answered.
“There’s no reception down here,” Yaw said.
Alex was already headed back to the empty railway.
“You guys stay here,” Yaw said, before he followed Alex.
Alex stepped out onto Hill Street and held the phone out in front of him. The small digital screen showed full reception, and Alex immediately pressed the redial button. He heard the multiple beeps of the autodial, knew the numbers that each tone corresponded to, and memorized them. He held the device to his ear just as it rang. Someone on the other end picked up after the first ring.
“Alex Luthecker, I presume,” Lucas Parks said.
Alex noted that Parks’ voice was not disguised or digitally altered.
“My name is Lucas Parks.”
“I know who you are.”
“Then you know the purpose of this call.”
“If you hurt her, there’s no place in the world that you can hide from me.”
“I’m not looking to hide from you. I’m looking to speak with you. In person. There’s a plane waiting for you at the Van Nuys Airport. Be there in an hour. Alone. If you ever want to see your lady friend again.”
The phone went dead before Alex could respond.
Through the lenses of his binoculars, Anthony Logan watched as their target, Alex Luthecker, engaged in a tense discussion with the large muscular black man known, according to their intel report, as Yaw Chinomso. Logan kept watching as the two men, their conversation concluded with an apparent decision made, shook hands and embraced, right before Luthecker broke off and walked away from the subway station. Logan followed the large muscular black man with the binoculars as he disappeared back into the underground passages. Logan pulled the binoculars from his eyes. He turned to his partner, John Mitchell Jr. and the two near-crippled Russians, Drugal and Vasilevich, who sat on the rooftop next to him.
“Luthecker made the call and he’s leaving. He’s on his way to the airport,” Logan said to the others.
“How many are in the subway?” Mitchell Jr. asked.
“Product count is thirty-eight. Plus two cops, a Vietnamese local, and the black guy,” Logan explained.
“And there are no other exits out of the tunnel?” Mitchell Jr. asked.
“None that we could find.”
Logan looked over at Drugal. “Are you two up for this?”
Drugal, his jaw broken, nodded. Logan could see the anger, the thirst for revenge in the young Russian’s eyes. Logan then looked at Vasilevich, who held up a rocket propelled grenade launcher with his left hand. Logan evaluated the two Russians and shook his head. Their brief encounter with the target had resulted in both men having broken arms and one man with a broken jaw. He questioned their usefulness at this point.
Logan looked at Drugal. “You finish this last bit, you two clowns can go back home to the Barbarian.”
Vasilevich nodded and put the RPG on his shoulder, taking careful aim at the Metro 417 entrance.
“Make sure there are no survivors,” Logan told the two Russians as he got to his feet. “Wait until Luthecker is clear.”
Vasilevich said nothing. He kept the RPG tube on his shoulder, his eyes on the subway entrance.
“As soon as that asshole is gone, do it so we can go home,” Drugal said to his Russian comrade, in a broken-jaw murmur.
Less than five minutes after Luthecker left, Vasilevich took a deep breath, held it in, and pulled the trigger.