'A guy I know in SIS is gonna get the videotape mailed anonymously. We'll be long gone, but Juanita and her band a scumball ladrones are gonna face an SIS hard takedown. Most greaseballs don't survive those.' He smiled at Shane. 'I don't want any cholos left behind to point a finger at us, pick us outta some picture lineup.'
Tremaine Lane suddenly walked out of the room, and Shane wondered where he was going.
They waited.
The Colombians arrived at a little past eight-thirty. There was a knock on the door, and Victory got up to open it.
'Hola,' one of the men outside said softly.
'Yeah, right,' Smith growled. 'How's yer asshole?' He stepped aside, letting them into the room.
There were two men and a woman, and as Jody had promised, Juanita Bacca was quite a package: shoulder-length, shiny black hair framed a dusky complexion and deep almond eyes. She was wearing a long black skirt wrapped tightly around her slender waist, slit in the middle almost to her crotch.
Jody nodded to her. 'Juanita. Como esta?'
She didn't acknowledge him; instead, she rattled some Spanish at the two men standing behind her, who immediately separated and flanked her protectively.
It was then that Shane got his first good look at both bodyguards. The one on the right was going to be big trouble. He was six-foot-two, unusually tall for a Colombian, and had flat, uninteresting features. The tattoos on his neck ran down into his open shirt collar. His name was Octavio Juarez, and Shane had busted him three or four times when he'd been working with the Valley Vice team. As soon as Octavio spotted Shane, he nudged Juanita.
'Ay, cabrdnf Es cuico, ' he whispered.
In a second, everyone had a gun out, including Juanita Bacca, who squatted slightly and grabbed between her legs through the folds of her split skirt. A spring-release holster chimed loudly, a chrome-plated.45 caliber Hardballer suddenly appeared in her hand.
They all held position, glaring over gun sights. No one seemed jittery, either… Just another day at the office. Then Tremaine Lane appeared from the corridor behind them and tromboned the slide on his auto-mag. The sound brought the first flicker of fear into the faces of the two black-eyed bodyguards, but they didn't turn or flinch. Only Juanita's and Jody's eyes hadn't changed; both were prepared to go down.
Victory Smith, unarmed, was standing in a crouch, his huge mitts helplessly out in front of him.
Juanita rattled something in Spanish to Octavio.
'Si,' he replied. 'Esta cerote me puse en el bote.››
'Hey, in English!' Jody demanded.
Shane spoke enough street Spanish to know Octavio had said, 'This piece of shit put me in jail.' And it was true. Octavio was a good bodyguard but a less-than-gifted street dealer who kept selling drugs to Valley Vice cops throughout the mid-nineties. Shane had roughed him up three times in one eleven-month period. A Valley Division record.
'Tu companero es policia, ' Juanita said suspiciously to Jody.
'He says what? A cop? You're nuts!' Jody was stalling.
'Jody, go buy this bitch a newspaper 'cause I'm all over the front page,' Shane said.
'That's right,' Jody brightened. 'Tremaine, we got these greaseballs covered. Go down to the lobby, get the L. A. Times.' He motioned at Shane. 'He's wanted by the cops for the murder of a police officer. Tell her, Sawdust.' Lester Wood rattled the translation at Juanita.
'No… Miguely vete!' Juanita said, motioning to a bodyguard who was holding a Tech 9 on Shane and Jody. She barked something else in Spanish, then Miguel backed out of the room past Tremaine.
'Inky Dink. Go with him!' Tremaine followed. They were all left standing in the room, gripping their iron, hoping nobody would get nervous and squeeze off a round by mistake.
A minute or two later, Miguel reentered the room with a copy of the Los Angeles Times and handed it to Juanita. Tremaine appeared in the threshold behind him.
On the front page, above the fold, was a picture of Shane, along with the story of the murder of Alexa Hamilton. Juanita scanned the paper quickly, looked at the picture, glanced up at Shane, then over at Jody, her beautiful face composed in a silent question.
'He's not a cop anymore,' Jody explained. 'Jamas policia. He's wanted for murder… He's with us now.' He looked at Sawdust helplessly. 'Is she getting any of this?'
Lester Wood rattled off a long sentence. Then all of them seemed to be talking at once. Finally Juanita lowered her Hardballer, and the others followed suit.
'Tienes los numeros? Te los did mi tio?' she asked.
Shane knew about 'los numeros' from other drug stings he'd worked. She was asking Jody for a secret number given by the cartel boss to both parties involved in a street transaction. Bacca was the cartel boss, and this was his money. The ID number was proof of his consent that the cash could be turned over to the Vikings. Since there were no contracts protecting the transfer, it was Jody's knowledge of this code that enabled Juanita to hand over millions of narco-dollars with no questions.
'The number? Yeah… It's 457, from Raphael,' Jody said.
'Cuatro cinco siete por Raphael,' Lester said.
'Okay. Vamos. Usted solamente/' Juanita ordered, pointing at Jody.
'Absolutely.' Jody smiled. 'Me only.' The tension in the room had eased slightly.
'Vamos en su coche,' she said to Jody. Adding in horrible English: 'We load. For is done. You go back. Es suficiente?'
'Works for me.' Jody smiled at her again. 'You guys wait here.'
'Dame los llaves.' She turned to Miguel. 'Como se dice?'
'She wants the keys to our car,' Shane said.
'Si, ' Juanita answered. 'Keys.'
'It's the blue step van in the lot downstairs,' Jody said to Miguel as he handed him the keys. The bodyguard immediately left the room.
Through all of this, the still-suspicious Octavio Juarez never took his eyes off Shane, not for a moment believing that a cop who had hooked him up three times in one year was now a fugitive.
'Let's do it,' Jody said.
Juanita and Octavio flanked Jody, and with no further discussion, they walked out of the room and closed the door, leaving the rest of the Vikings behind.
'Why're we waiting? Let's get outta here,' Shane said after they were gone. He moved to the door, but Lester and Tremaine were still at the windows, watching as the step van, followed by a new black Cadillac, pulled out of the lot.
'Be cool,' Tremaine said to Shane. 'With this satellite rig, we can tail them from miles back… It shoots a tracking signal back to us from outer space.'
They waited for almost three minutes before Tremaine nodded and Shane opened the door. They walked out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into the parking lot. Shane and Tremaine climbed into the black GMC truck with the pool-cleaning logo on the side. Victory Smith and Lester Wood got into the windowless gray van with the monitors. Tremaine had already switched on the dash-mounted GPS: a map of the entire West Valley downloaded onto the LCD screen. Then they saw a small blip moving near the center of the readout, indicating the route the step van was taking. It was heading east, down the Ventura Freeway toward Studio City.
'Let's go. That's them,' Tremaine said. Then he pulled out. The gray van, with Victory driving, followed right behind them.
'Where'd you get all this high-tech stuff?' Shane asked.
'Rod stole it from SWAT. They got the best shit,' Tremaine answered, his deep voice resonating in the sound-deadened cab.
They were on the freeway now, following the flashing dot on the GPS, heading east. The white step van was at least a mile ahead of them.
Shane looked over at Tremaine, his shaved head glistening, reflecting the passing freeway lights.
Of all the Vikings, Shane thought Tremaine was the most puzzling. The ex-SWAT sergeant had a cool intelligence and natural leadership that he masked with profound silences, mixed with spurts of ghetto-speak. But
