back of the car and sprang up alongside the sedan’s passenger side with my gun barrel about four feet away from Flamehead’s cheek.
“Hands on the roof where I can see ’em. Both of you, right now.”
They both flinched and spun around to face me, stone-faced behind their shades.
“Do it.”
To press my point, I flicked my gun to the left and aimed it just inches from Flamehead’s elaborate skull and let off a quick round into the rear window as a warning, blowing up the tempered glass and showering them with its granules.
I swung the gun right back into Flamehead’s face.
“Okay, okay,” he grumbled as both his hands shot up and reached for the top of the window frame.
I saw a stir deeper in the car as the driver twisted around, his face locked with angry resolve as his right hand dived for something—the grip of a gun sticking out by his waist. I didn’t have time to shout out another warning and just took my shot.
The guy let out a loud yelp and screamed out “Fuuuck!” as his left hand flew up to the bloodied hole in his shoulder that my round had punched.
“You fucking nuts, man?” Flamehead moaned, his eyes flicking from his groaning friend to me and back.
“I’m not screwing around,” I yelled back. “Now give me those hands and get out of the fucking car.”
I watched intently as the passenger door swung open and Flamehead climbed out of the car, slowly, with his arms up. He was wearing a black Windbreaker over a dark T-shirt, baggy jeans, and a bulky pair of work boots. I couldn’t tell if he was carrying or not.
“You got a weapon?” I asked, bending down a bit so I could keep an eye on the guy behind the wheel.
“Yeah,” Flamehead grunted. “Belt holster.”
“Two fingers. Easy. On the ground.”
He nodded grudgingly, then pulled an automatic out and set it down by his feet.
“Now kick it under the car. Gently.”
He did so.
“Okay. I want both hands on the roof and your legs spread,” I ordered him, then turned my attention to the driver. “You, out.”
I took a few steps back and edged around the front of the car so I could keep an eye on the driver. I held my Browning in my right hand while my left hand fished out my phone.
“I’ve got them,” I told Villaverde. “Send in the troops.”
The driver was cursing and groaning his way out of the car. He was shorter and stockier than Flamehead and sported a soul patch—a smidgen of beard beneath his lower lip—and long, straight hair that he wore tied back. He rounded the door to face me and looked mad as hell as he scowled at me before spitting at the ground.
I held his glare and told him, “Easy, tiger. I think one hole’s enough for today, what do you say?” I nodded at the gun on his belt. “Two fingers. You know the drill.”
He spat again, then did it.
“Kick it under the car,” I told him. “And I don’t mean all the way to the human torch there.”
He bent down and did as directed—and that’s when Terry decided to make his appearance.
“Ho-ly shit, buddy, you okay?”
My eyes flicked across to track his booming, breathless voice, and I caught a glimpse of him waddling across the wide street with his gun out, his face all sweaty, his fleshy jowls rippling with the ebb and flow of each heavy step—
—and that split-second diversion was enough for the two goons to try to make their break.
They bolted almost simultaneously, like they were joined by some freaky mind-meld, the two of them charging at me while unleashing demonic yells. Flamehead reached me first, coming at me from the left, but I managed to deflect his first punch with my left arm and pound him with a flat strike from my gun hand that landed flat across his nose and upper lip and sent him staggering sideways all rubber-kneed, but the move had left my right side exposed and Soulpatch was on me in a flash, tackling me around the waist and shoving me down to the ground. The Browning and the BlackBerry tumbled out of my hand as I hit the asphalt hard and I lost sight of them, my attention focused on Soulpatch’s left arm, which was flying down for a hammer punch. I caught it with my forearm and swung his arm away before jabbing his bloodied shoulder with my left fist, causing him to wail out in pain—then Terry shouted, “Stop!”
I saw Soulpatch look up and swung my head sideways and caught sight of Terry standing there, about twenty feet away, with his face all scrunched in concentration and his gun out in a two-handed stance, and he yelled again, “I’m warning you!”
I heard Flamehead blurt, “Fuck this,” and flicked my head to my left to see him run off—then Soulpatch sprang off me and onto his feet and tore off after him.
Terry yelled, “Stop!”
And just then, just as I was shouting “Don’t!” he squeezed the trigger, once, twice, then again, three quick, loud bursts that whipped through the air between us.
“Nooo!” I barked as I pushed to my feet, my eyes rocketing away from Terry to look down the road where I saw Flamehead stumble and hit the asphalt like he was a toy that had his power switch flicked off.
I yelled out to Terry, “Stop firing!” my arms out wide and my hands splayed open. His face flooded with confusion, then he nodded, and I added, “Call nine-one-one and get an ambulance down here,” jabbing an angry finger at the fallen man in the middle of the road, then I turned away from him and scanned the ground for my Browning and my phone. I glimpsed the phone with its back off and its battery scattered by an adjacent car, decided they could wait, and tore my eyes across to focus on recovering my gun, which was lying by some weeds at the edge of the sidewalk.
I scooped it up and ran down the street.
Soulpatch had veered off to the right, and I caught sight of him weaving through some parked cars in an adjacent lot as I got to Flamehead, who was just sprawled on the ground, wheezing with labored breathing and barely moving. With all his dark clothing, I couldn’t see where he’d been hit at first, then I saw it, a small hole in his Windbreaker by the base of his right shoulder blade.
I glanced across and saw Soulpatch disappearing behind more cars, and decided I needed to lock him down fast.
Terry was making his way over, his step slow and deflated. I yelled out to him, “Stay with this guy till the ambulance shows up and send the uniforms after me.”
He nodded. “You got it.” And I was off.
I snaked through more parked cars and hurtled into the next lot, past another messy boatyard and a meat warehouse, but I couldn’t see him anymore. The bastard was moving fast, even though he was wounded. I’d only hit him in the shoulder, in an area I knew didn’t have major arteries that would make him bleed out nor, obviously, any vital organs. I knew my slug wasn’t going to slow him down too much, although from the puff of car seat stuffing I’d seen when I’d shot him, I knew the bullet had been a through-and-through, which meant he had two holes in him and he’d be losing blood from both.
I swung my gaze right and left, searching for any sign of him as a cold, hollow space grew in my gut. All around me, I could see a mess of low-rise structures that housed shipping- and auto-related businesses with big yards of scattered equipment and lots of places to hide—or lots of cars to jack. I advanced again, keeping to the same direction I’d seen him heading in, but with each aimless step, the hollow feeling grew like a black hole and consumed my insides with the doomed realization that the bastard was probably gone.
20
“Where are you?” Walker barked into the phone.
“I’m in the Barrio,” Ricky “Scrape” Torres replied. “It’s all gone to shit, man. I’m hit.”
Walker could hear the strain and the desperation in his bike brother’s voice. “What? What the hell
