My hand shakes when I turn the key Gustavo left in the ignition, only vaguely grateful he didn’t take it with him. The bastard probably thought he’d need to make a quick getaway.
I put the car into gear and drive, aiming blindly at first, then swerving hard when I spy the narrow access ramp that leads up and out of the riverbed. Behind me, the twins finally turn on their headlights, which gives me an odd sense of comfort. They’re alive, but I don’t want to think about the tragic news they carry with them. The body of the man my best friend has loved for years.
“Fuck you, Gustavo.” The words sound like they’re coming from another person, as thick and hoarse as my voice is. I can’t afford to be emotional now. Not when Leo’s hanging on by a thread next to me.
Where am I supposed to take him? Not a hospital. That’s asking for trouble. My father drilled into me what to do in emergencies like this, but none of the details are coming to me now. We have an on-call doctor, but I can’t remember his address, and it isn’t like I had the presence of mind to sync my phone with Gustavo’s car and plug the address into the GPS. There’s no time for that!
I stop at a traffic light just before the 110 Freeway on-ramp and force myself to map out a route to somewhere. Home is too far, but I don’t know anywhere close.
Then I have a flash of memory of a caduceus-shaped patch on a dun-colored backpack that belongs to a certain tattoo artist. Before I can second-guess myself, I hit the gas and gun the engine onto the freeway.
Speeding is just asking for trouble from the highway patrol, especially with the twins behind me carrying Manny’s corpse. I keep the speedometer just under the limit. Thankfully, at this time of night, traffic is light.
I just hope when I get to Maddox he’s willing to help.
13
Maddox
Only an hour has passed since my brother loaded the crates of guns into the back of a black van and drove off into the darkness. It’s late enough on a Sunday night I should just go to sleep, but I’m too antsy to sit still. The relief of having those things out of my goddamn garage is tempered by the worry that something’s going to go wrong, even though J.J. swore up and down that he knew what the hell he was doing. He’s an even-tempered, calculating son of a bitch, so I have no doubt he can hold it together if he needs to, but he’s not the only one involved.
I’m rearranging my tools for the third time when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I’m instantly on guard. He said it would be at least a couple hours before I heard from him, so it’s too fucking soon, but it’s too late for anyone else to call.
His name lights up the screen and I curse, then punch the screen and put the phone to my ear. “You better fucking tell me it’s done, man.”
He barks a bitter laugh. “I wish, brother. I had to bail the fuck out in the middle of the goddamn deal. Something went wrong. I’m not even sure what happened, but I cut tail and ran the second I heard the first gunshot. I’m coming back now, so be ready to cover this shit up.”
I grit my teeth. “This was not part of our arrangement.”
“Dude, I don’t have a fucking choice. I just need to stash this shit until I can get ahold of Gustavo and find out what the fuck happened.” He mutters the last words under his breath, and my hackles instantly rise.
“Gustavo Delgado? Is that who you were doing the deal with? What the fuck, J.J.?”
“He’s the only one local with a connection to the Amador cartel. I hoped I wouldn’t have to tell you who my buyer was.”
“Jesus fuck, dude. Not on the goddamn phone, okay? I don’t need any feds up my ass. We’ll talk when you get here.”
We hang up, and I shove my phone back into my pocket with a curse and pace the floor for the next fifteen minutes. Finally, I hear the rumble of the van’s engine and the tires in the alley outside. I open the garage door, and J.J. backs in and kills the engine. I’ve already got the rear door open and have one crate halfway out by the time he comes around to grab the opposite end.
We stack the half-dozen crates in the back corner in silence and replace the old tires around them, then he takes the van and parks it down the street. When J.J. gets back, his jaw is set, his lips pressed into a grim line, and he shakes his head.
“Want to tell me what the fuck happened out there?” I ask when he steps back into the garage.
He rakes his fingers through his hair, stares at the stack of tires, and shakes his head. “No fucking clue. I can’t reach Gustavo either. All I know is I was about to help Amador’s men unload the guns when someone fired a shot, and all hell broke loose. Now the fucker isn’t picking up.”
Headlights flash across the wall, and J.J. ducks for cover behind my truck. My own survival instincts make me follow, and I peek out through the cab as a black Mercedes pulls into the alley and rolls to a stop as if the driver isn’t sure where they are.
J.J. lets out a harsh curse, slipping his hand to his back and pulling out a handgun he had
