Turning with a start, he saw an LAPD patrol officer topping the stairwell and heading in his direction. A powerfully built Hispanic guy with the requisite cop haircut.
“I’m looking for Ignacio Vargas. Is that you?”
Vargas’s heart was pounding. “What’s this about?”
“We had word of a disturbance. Is everything okay here?”
Disturbance, Vargas thought. What kind of disturbance? Had one of his neighbors heard Mr. Blister breaking into his apartment and called the cops?
A nice theory, but most of the people living in this building-which leaned toward off-duty prostitutes and low- rent hucksters-had no interest in contacting the cops for any reason whatsoever. It seemed that the only time the LAPD ever showed up around here was to harass or arrest someone.
Besides, he doubted that Mr. Blister would be so careless.
He was about to respond when his gaze dropped to the officer’s right hand, which was moving toward the weapon holstered on his hip. In a quick, fluid motion, the cop unsnapped the holster strap and pulled his gun free.
It was at that moment that Vargas decided that either the La Santa Muerte cult had connections that reached far beyond a rogue border patrol agent or this guy was not LAPD at all.
Whatever the case, one thing was obvious: Mr. Blister had help. And as the gun came up, Vargas dove.
The shot cracked, splintering wood somewhere above him as he rolled into his apartment, then suddenly realized that he’d just made a huge mistake.
There was nowhere to hide in here.
Jumping to his feet, he slung the backpack over his shoulder, bolted for the sliding glass door, and flung it open.
Another shot cracked and the door shattered, glass flying everywhere as — Vargas vaulted the balcony rail and jumped to the roof of a Grand Caravan parked at the curb below. He hit it hard, denting the roof, and the alarm started squealing as he lost his footing and tumbled to the sidewalk, landing on his hands and knees.
The impact sent a jolt of pain through him. But feeling eyes on him from the balcony above, he pushed past the pain, scrambled to his feet, and ran.
There was a shout behind him but no more gunshots. Then an engine revved and tires squealed and headlights washed across his back.
Chancing a glance over his shoulder, he saw what looked like an LAPD patrol car heading toward him, but again, he couldn’t be sure it was the real thing. The light bar mounted across the top was dark, and the glare of the car’s headlights made it difficult to see.
Not that it mattered at this point. These were subjects for later debate-assuming there was a later.
He picked up speed, but he knew there was no way he’d ever outrun a car, so his only choice was to cut into a neighboring apartment building.
This was good in theory but difficult in practice, because the building he was in front of right now was a bit more upscale than his place. The only way in was through one of the security gates that guarded the underground parking garage and the lobby entrance.
He didn’t figure anyone would be buzzing in a half-crazed has-been newspaper reporter with a gun-toting assassin at his heels, so he cut across the street instead, heading toward the all-night gas station on the corner. There was a lot of light there, and surely they wouldn’t try to shoot him in so public a place.
Assuming, of course, he was able to reach it.
The car roared behind him, and as he cleared the curb and stepped onto the sidewalk, his breathing ragged, his body shouting at him to slow the fuck down, the car pulled up alongside of him and — all he could think about was his brother, Manny. Manny getting ambushed by a van full of punks, pulling up alongside him and firing that bullet that changed his life forever.
And at that moment, Vargas knew his brother’s terror.
Then a shot cracked, quickly followed by another. And while the first one seemed to have gone wild, the second one made an impact and Vargas felt himself go down, pain blossoming somewhere in the region of his shoulder and the right side of his neck.
And as he hit the ground-knocking what little wind he had left completely out of him-he heard the squeal of tires and the beefy roar of the car’s engine as it tore away, disappearing around the corner.
Then, for the third time in as many days, everything went black.
59
The mexican wrestlers were back.
He caught only fleeting glimpses of them as they grabbed hold of him and tossed him around as if he were nothing more than an oversized suitcase.
One of them said something to him, but in a language he didn’t understand, and all he could do was groan in response. It must have been enough, however, because the crowd watching them cheered.
Then he was picked up again and tossed around and the next thing he knew there were blinding lights in his eyes and the wrestlers were gone, replaced now by angels in pastel greens and blues.
One of them was rubbing his aching shoulder, and suddenly the pain went away and he was gone again, only to awaken in a hospital bed, surrounded by curtains and the sound of voices and beeping machinery, his shirt and shoes gone, a patch of gauze taped to the space between his neck and his right shoulder, an IV attached to a tube in the back of his hand.
Only then did he remember what had happened and was surprised to discover that he was still alive.
He felt a presence nearby, someone moving around next to him, playing with tubes or wires or buttons or whatever. Then one of the angels appeared in front of him, leaning forward, her pastel blue-covered breasts brushing against his arm as she checked something above him.
He looked up at her and saw an attractive short-haired Asian woman who smelled faintly of lilac.
“Welcome back,” she said.
“Did I go somewhere?”
“You drifted off a few times, but that was mostly because of the medication. The effects should wear off pretty soon.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Not long. The doctor will be in in a moment to fill in the details.”
“Somebody shot me.”
“That’s the general consensus,” she said. “But you got lucky. The bullet went straight through and didn’t manage to do much damage. You lost some blood, but nothing substantial.”
“I can’t feel a thing.”
A soft laugh. She patted his arm.
“You will when the local wears off. But then you probably already know that.” She gestured toward his stitches. “Looks like you’ve had extensive experience in that area.”
She fussed with some of the machinery again, checked the tube in his hand, then turned and reached for the curtain.
“I’ll let the police know you’re awake. They’ll want to see you as soon as the doctor is finished.”
Vargas’s stomach dropped. “Police?”
“They’ve been waiting to talk to you. We have to report all gunshot wounds.”
“What do they look like?”
She frowned at him. A question she hadn’t anticipated. “Look like?”
“Black, white, Hispanic?”
“They look like a couple of bored cops in uniform. What difference does it make?”
Vargas shook his head. “Never mind,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”
She studied him a moment, uncertainty in her eyes, then said, “I’ll get the doctor,” as she disappeared behind the curtain.
