do the same for him.
He watched me buckle up, then he hit the sirens and stepped on the gas.
We were about five minutes from the Vault, a class A nightclub on the second floor of a former Bank of America building.
“Fill me in,” I said to my partner.
“Call came in to 911 about ten minutes ago,” Conklin said as we tore up California Street. “A kitchen worker said he recognized Kingfisher out in the bar. He was still trying to convince 911 that it was an emergency when shots were fired inside the club.”
“Watch out on our right.”
Richie yanked the wheel hard left to avoid an indecisive panel truck, then jerked it hard right and took a turn onto Sansome.
“You okay?” he asked.
I had been known to get carsick in jerky high-speed chases when I wasn’t behind the wheel.
“I’m fine. Keep talking.”
My partner told me that a second witness reported to first officers that three men were talking to two women at the bar. One of the men yelled, “No one screws with the King.” Shots were fired. The women were killed.
“Caller didn’t leave his name.”
I was gripping both the dash and the door, and had both feet on imaginary brakes, but my mind was occupied with Kingfisher. He was a Mexican drug cartel boss, a psycho with a history of brutality and revenge, and a penchant for settling his scores personally.
Richie was saying, “Patrol units arrived as the shooters were attempting to flee through the front entrance. Someone saw the tattoo on the back of the hand of one of the shooters. I talked to Brady,” Conklin said, referring to our lieutenant. “If that shooter is Kingfisher and survives, he’s ours.”
I wanted the King on death row for the normal reasons. He was to the drug and murder trade as al-Baghdadi was to terrorism. But I also had personal reasons.
Earlier that year a cadre of dirty San Francisco cops from our division had taken down a number of drug houses for their own financial gain. One drug house in particular yielded a payoff of five to seven million in cash and drugs. Whether those cops knew it beforehand or not, the stolen loot belonged to Kingfisher—and he wanted it back.
The King took his revenge but was still short a big pile of dope and dollars.
So he turned his sights on me.
I was the primary homicide inspector on the dirty-cop case.
Using his own twisted logic, the King demanded that I personally recover and return his property. Or else.
It was a threat and a promise, and of course I couldn’t deliver.
From that moment on I had protection all day and night, every day and night, but protection isn’t enough when your tormentor is like a ghost. We had grainy photos and shoddy footage from cheap surveillance cameras on file. We had a blurry picture of a tattoo on the back of his left hand.
That was all.
After his threat I couldn’t cross the street from my apartment to my car without fear that Kingfisher would drop me dead in the street.
A week after the first of many threatening phone calls, the calls stopped. A report came in from the Mexican federal police saying that they had turned up the King’s body in a shallow grave in Baja. That’s what they said.
I had wondered then if the King was really dead. If the freaking nightmare was truly over.
I had just about convinced myself that my family and I were safe. Now the breaking news confirmed that my gut reaction had been right. Either the Mexican police had lied, or the King had tricked them with a dead doppelganger buried in the sand.
A few minutes ago the King had been identified by a kitchen worker at the Vault. If true, why had he surfaced again in San Francisco? Why had he chosen to show his face in a nightclub filled with people? Why shoot two women inside that club? And my number one question: Could we bring him in alive and take him to trial?
Please, God. Please.
Our car radio was barking, crackling, and squealing at a high pitch as cars were directed to the Vault, in the middle of
He watched me buckle up, then he hit the sirens and stepped on the gas.
We were about five minutes from the Vault, a class A nightclub on the second floor of a former Bank of America building.
“Fill me in,” I said to my partner.
“Call came in to 911 about ten minutes ago,” Conklin said as we tore up California Street. “A kitchen worker said he recognized Kingfisher out in the bar. He was still trying to convince 911 that it was an emergency when shots were fired inside the club.”
“Watch out on our right.”
Richie yanked the wheel hard left to avoid an indecisive panel truck, then jerked it hard right and took a turn onto Sansome.
“You okay?” he asked.
I had been known to get carsick in jerky high-speed chases when I wasn’t behind the wheel.
“I’m fine. Keep talking.”
My partner told me that a second witness reported to first officers that three men were talking to two women at the bar. One of the men yelled, “No one screws with the King.” Shots were fired. The women were killed.
“Caller didn’t leave his name.”
I was gripping both the dash and the door, and had both feet on imaginary brakes, but my mind was occupied with Kingfisher. He was a Mexican drug cartel boss, a psycho with a history of brutality and revenge, and a penchant for settling his scores personally.
Richie was saying, “Patrol units arrived as the shooters were attempting to flee through the front entrance. Someone saw the tattoo on the back of the hand of one of the shooters. I talked to Brady,” Conklin said, referring to our lieutenant. “If that shooter is Kingfisher and survives, he’s ours.”
I wanted the King on death row for the normal reasons. He was to the drug and murder trade as al-Baghdadi was to terrorism. But I also had personal reasons.
Earlier that year a cadre of dirty San Francisco cops from our division had taken down a number of drug houses for their own financial gain. One drug house in particular yielded a payoff of five to seven million in cash and drugs. Whether those cops knew it beforehand or not, the stolen loot belonged to Kingfisher—and he wanted it back.
The King took his revenge but was still short a big pile of dope and dollars.
So he turned his sights on me.
I was the primary homicide inspector on the dirty-cop case.
Using his own twisted logic, the King demanded that I personally recover and return his property. Or else.
It was a threat and a promise, and of course I couldn’t deliver.
From that moment on I had protection all day and night, every day and night, but protection isn’t enough when your tormentor is like a ghost. We had grainy photos and shoddy footage from cheap surveillance cameras on file. We had a blurry picture of a tattoo on the back of his left hand.
That was all.
After his threat I couldn’t cross the street from my apartment to my car without fear that Kingfisher would drop me dead in the street.
A week after the first of many threatening phone calls, the calls stopped. A report came in from the Mexican federal police saying that they had turned up the King’s body in a shallow grave in Baja. That’s what they said.
I had wondered then if the King was really dead. If the freaking nightmare was truly over.
I had just about convinced myself that my family and I were safe. Now the breaking news confirmed that my gut reaction had been right. Either the Mexican police had lied, or the King had tricked them with a dead doppelganger buried in the sand.
A few minutes ago the King had been identified by a kitchen worker at the Vault. If true, why had he surfaced again in San Francisco? Why had he chosen to show his face in a nightclub filled with people? Why shoot two women inside that club? And my number one question: Could we bring him in alive and take him to trial?
Please, God. Please.
Our car radio was barking, crackling, and squealing at a high pitch as cars were directed to the Vault, in the middle of
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