IN.”
No response.
An agent armed two flash-bangs and tossed them inside the open doorway. He counted down with his fingers, starting at three, two, one.
For an instant the gloom of the darkened interior went thermite bright. Sounds like a fireworks display gone psycho rolled through the neighborhood. Glass shattered behind one of the barred windows. Agents streamed into the house two by two, sweeping the rooms.
Hunter was relieved no more shooting came. Despite his training, he really didn’t want to have to go med-tech on anyone right now.
Soon six men were sitting cross-legged in the prickly yellow weeds that made up the front yard. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs. Eight cops stood around them, weapons low but attentive.
“Bet those bad boys have jailhouse tats and iron-pile abs,” Jase said.
“Sucker bet.” Hunter rolled the window down, flinched, and swore under his breath. “Something’s been dead for a while.”
“And not buried,” Jase agreed. “Stay here until I make sure it’s cool for a visitor.”
Hunter settled back. It would take time to Mirandize the gangbangers in the weeds and secure the house. He checked the glove compartment and found the little pair of binoculars Jase always kept there, just in case.
Quietly Hunter focused on the seated men. Only one of them tripped his radar. The man was darker than the others, calmer, and had tats like multicolored serpent scales winding up his brawny arms. No reptilian head in sight.
While agents hauled out the rock cocaine and precursors from the kitchen, others pulled enough weapons from the house to start—and finish—a war. The guns came out in green nylon rucksacks that looked like they had been dragged up and down the Dirty Coast a few hundred times. And then there were the knives. From what Hunter could see, Gerbers and Ontarios were the local favorites. One Bowie-style knife as long as his forearm had DULCE BESO engraved on the blade.
“‘Sweet Kiss,’” Hunter muttered to himself. “Those are some whacked-out dudes.”
All of the agents who came out of the house looked a little paler than when they had gone in—even Jase, who had emerged to chat up the agent who was questioning the gangbangers in the weeds.
Finally Jase came back to the van. “With me,” he said to Hunter. “Be seen but not heard.”
“Got it. The dude with the snake tats looks like a cousin to LeRoy’s visitors.”
“The agent questioning him thinks he has a Yucatec accent,” Jase said. “Can’t be sure. The agent’s mother was born in Guatemala, near the border, but they still visit family.”
Hunter followed Jase across the weeds that were being trampled by all the traffic. Once they were inside, the house was dark with more than a lack of light. Beneath the smell of flash-bangs was something grim. Not simply dirty, but foul.
The living room was jammed with leather furniture that had once been expensive. Then had come years of being used for everything from ashtrays to whetstones. The coffee table was supported by cinder blocks stamped with a colorful flower pattern. The table itself was made of mismatched boards that probably had been stolen from a construction site. Spanish-language telenovela magazines were scattered about, as well handled as the centerfolds tacked to the grimy walls. The tits-and-ass needed no translation.
Wonder if they hoped Juan Carlos would choose Tilde or Mariana for eternal bliss, Hunter thought.
“Guess these gangbangers and my mom have something in common,” Jase said. “The magazines, not the skin pics.”
“Scary idea,” Hunter muttered.
The kitchen was dominated by a gigantic, soot-caked gas range. Butcher-block tables had been pushed together to make a large work surface. On it was a cardboard box filled with tiny Ziploc bags.
“Your mom’s kitchen smells better,” Hunter said.
“Drugs stink like the crap they are.”
The counter was covered by red plastic cylinders filled with white
No response.
An agent armed two flash-bangs and tossed them inside the open doorway. He counted down with his fingers, starting at three, two, one.
For an instant the gloom of the darkened interior went thermite bright. Sounds like a fireworks display gone psycho rolled through the neighborhood. Glass shattered behind one of the barred windows. Agents streamed into the house two by two, sweeping the rooms.
Hunter was relieved no more shooting came. Despite his training, he really didn’t want to have to go med-tech on anyone right now.
Soon six men were sitting cross-legged in the prickly yellow weeds that made up the front yard. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs. Eight cops stood around them, weapons low but attentive.
“Bet those bad boys have jailhouse tats and iron-pile abs,” Jase said.
“Sucker bet.” Hunter rolled the window down, flinched, and swore under his breath. “Something’s been dead for a while.”
“And not buried,” Jase agreed. “Stay here until I make sure it’s cool for a visitor.”
Hunter settled back. It would take time to Mirandize the gangbangers in the weeds and secure the house. He checked the glove compartment and found the little pair of binoculars Jase always kept there, just in case.
Quietly Hunter focused on the seated men. Only one of them tripped his radar. The man was darker than the others, calmer, and had tats like multicolored serpent scales winding up his brawny arms. No reptilian head in sight.
While agents hauled out the rock cocaine and precursors from the kitchen, others pulled enough weapons from the house to start—and finish—a war. The guns came out in green nylon rucksacks that looked like they had been dragged up and down the Dirty Coast a few hundred times. And then there were the knives. From what Hunter could see, Gerbers and Ontarios were the local favorites. One Bowie-style knife as long as his forearm had DULCE BESO engraved on the blade.
“‘Sweet Kiss,’” Hunter muttered to himself. “Those are some whacked-out dudes.”
All of the agents who came out of the house looked a little paler than when they had gone in—even Jase, who had emerged to chat up the agent who was questioning the gangbangers in the weeds.
Finally Jase came back to the van. “With me,” he said to Hunter. “Be seen but not heard.”
“Got it. The dude with the snake tats looks like a cousin to LeRoy’s visitors.”
“The agent questioning him thinks he has a Yucatec accent,” Jase said. “Can’t be sure. The agent’s mother was born in Guatemala, near the border, but they still visit family.”
Hunter followed Jase across the weeds that were being trampled by all the traffic. Once they were inside, the house was dark with more than a lack of light. Beneath the smell of flash-bangs was something grim. Not simply dirty, but foul.
The living room was jammed with leather furniture that had once been expensive. Then had come years of being used for everything from ashtrays to whetstones. The coffee table was supported by cinder blocks stamped with a colorful flower pattern. The table itself was made of mismatched boards that probably had been stolen from a construction site. Spanish-language telenovela magazines were scattered about, as well handled as the centerfolds tacked to the grimy walls. The tits-and-ass needed no translation.
Wonder if they hoped Juan Carlos would choose Tilde or Mariana for eternal bliss, Hunter thought.
“Guess these gangbangers and my mom have something in common,” Jase said. “The magazines, not the skin pics.”
“Scary idea,” Hunter muttered.
The kitchen was dominated by a gigantic, soot-caked gas range. Butcher-block tables had been pushed together to make a large work surface. On it was a cardboard box filled with tiny Ziploc bags.
“Your mom’s kitchen smells better,” Hunter said.
“Drugs stink like the crap they are.”
The counter was covered by red plastic cylinders filled with white
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