He’d seen the news. Someone had shot up the local Crips pretty good. He figured it was a rival Crip set, or maybe an internal power struggle. Two things impressed him about the event, though. One was that someone had managed to get hold of fully automatic rifles, and that was some serious shit in these parts. While it was a little easier to get guns in the Pacific Northwest, it had also proved very difficult to get full auto pieces. So the fact that someone was able to pull that off, and with AKs, no less, well, that impressed Esteban quite a bit.
The more important thing that impressed him was the opportunity that it created for him and his crew. Whether this shooting was an internal struggle or a gang versus gang, four dead homies was going to hurt those Crips. On top of that, they’d be keeping their heads down, waiting for the next visit from those AK-47s. They wouldn’t be up for very much in the way of business. The Crips wouldn’t be in any sort of position to supply the demand.
Los Diablos could. But he had to think it through. If he moved in too quick or too hard, they might think he was behind that drive-by. That would result in all-out war between the Crips and Los Diablos. He didn’t want that. But maybe if they just crept in a little at a time. Just nibble and nibble while the others were fighting each other. If they came around eventually and wanted their piece back, Esteban could decide whether it was worth fighting for. Or he could negotiate. Hell, if he had to, he could just give it to them, though he doubted he would. Those mayates might get through whatever fight they were in, but they weren’t going to come out of it stronger.
Esteban crossed Broadway Avenue and turned left. He could feel the sweat running down the small of his back and was looking forward to something cold. Maybe he’d get a Pepsi. A great big cup, chock full of ice. That’d go down real nice.
Out of habit, Esteban cast his eyes left and right as he walked. The Crips shooting probably didn’t mean he was in any greater danger than usual, but it jangled his nerves just a little bit.
He didn’t see any cars that made him suspicious. A pair of kids rode bikes in the empty parking lot across the street. A block away, he could hear the noise of a basketball game at Dutch Jake Park. A short, thin man stood using the payphone near the door to the grocery store.
As Esteban approached the door, it swung open toward him. A kid no older than nine burst out, clutching a Slurpee in both hands. Immediately behind him came a smaller version of the same kid, maybe six or so. He carried the same size cup. The blue ice sloshed as he hurried after his older brother.
“Michael!” he yelled. “Mom said to wait for me!” Michael kept running.
Esteban held the door, waiting until the younger kid cleared the threshold.
“Michael! I’m telling Mom!”
Esteban smiled slightly. He had an older brother. Paco was in Walla Walla, serving six to twelve for a manslaughter charge. It had been at least three months since he’d visited his older brother. He decided to do that soon. Right now, though, he wanted that Pepsi-
A firm hand gripped his left shoulder, then a hard coldness bit into his right kidney. He took in a sharp breath. Before there was even any pain, he felt the blade slide forward, cutting through his abdomen. When the knife tore free somewhere near his belly button, the coldness turned to a harsh fire of intense pain exploding from his middle. He tried to cry out, but only a wet gasp slipped past his lips.
Strong hands guided him to the ground and leaned him against the wall next to the door. Esteban wanted to see who it was. He wanted to take the identity of his killer with him to hell, but he couldn’t muster the strength to turn his head and look. The most he could manage was to stare down at his middle. Bright red blood coursed out, soaking into his white T-shirt and pooling around his knees.
Chinga tu madre, puto, he tried to say, but could only gurgle.
He didn’t want to die this way. He refused to die this way. He would take this coward with him. Esteban wrapped his left arm around his seeping middle to keep his insides from spilling out. He slid his hand into his pocket, fumbling for the.25 auto. The bullets might not be that big, but when he put one in the middle of that maricon’s forehead, it would do the-
The next thing he knew was darkness.
SIX
Wednesday, July 16th
1640 hours
Renee sat in the chief’s office, feeling ignored while Special Agent Maurice Payne orated. The mush-mouthed agent prattled on mostly to the chief, occasionally glancing at Captain Reott and Lieutenant Crawford. Renee and Detective Browning might as well have been invisible.
“The AK-47, while not exclusively used by former Soviet organized crime, is a heavily favored weapon,” Payne said in the tone of a lecturing professor. “As you may know, that was the standard issue rifle in the former Soviet Union and their satellite eastern bloc nations. The better models are Czech-made, though the Chinese have a-”
“I’m familiar with the weapon, son,” the chief said, cutting him off. “I faced off against soldiers carrying it for my entire military career. But just because someone used an AK-47, it doesn’t make them Russian. Anyone could have gotten hold of some AKs.”
“Perhaps,” Payne conceded, his expression slightly pouty. “But also remember that DeShawn Brown reported hearing a Russian accent.”
“He heard an accent,” Detective Browning corrected. “He didn’t specify it was a Russian accent.”
Payne turned to Browning. “When I spoke to him, I asked if it could have been Russian. He said yes.”
Browning’s eyes widened. “You interviewed one of my witnesses?”
“Of course,” Payne said officiously. He gave Browning a condescending look. “Sometimes you have to know what questions to ask, Detective.”
Browning’s nostrils flared. Renee swore she saw red seep into Browning’s cocoa-colored cheeks. There was a long moment of tension in the room before Browning sputtered, “Know what questions to-”
“I thought the feebs were here to observe and assist,” Lieutenant Crawford interrupted. “Not screw up our investigation.”
The room fell silent and the temperature seemed to drop. Renee resisted the urge to smile at Payne’s expense and sat quietly waiting to see how the situation played out. Payne blushed and pressed his lips together tightly, but didn’t speak right away.
The chief filled the silence. “I don’t think we need to be tossing any more rocks in the pond, Lieutenant,” he said, “just to see the splash.”
Lieutenant Crawford didn’t remove his eyes from Payne. “Sir, I wasn’t tossing any rocks. I just think it’s damned unprofessional of an agency that’s supposed to be assisting us on a case to stomp on the lead investigator’s shoes.”
Payne squirmed under Crawford’s steady gaze. “If this was a shoplifting at the supermarket,” Payne snapped, “I’d be inclined to agree with you, Lieutenant. But this case has major repercussions that could extend well beyond River City. If the Russians are successful in consolidating their position here, they might make similar moves in large cities such as Seattle or Portland.”
“So we’re just the minor leagues,” Crawford commented dryly.
“River City’s always been a small town,” Payne shot back. “A city isn’t always defined by the size of its population. Sometimes it has to do with attitude and professionalism.”
“Well,” Crawford said. “Aren’t we just Mr. Cosmopolitan?”
Payne opened his mouth to reply, but the chief cut him off.