I’m damaged goods, I might not get a second chance.”
“Not important right now.”
“Fuck you.”
“Chris—”
“Don’t tell me what’s important!”
Jack could hear tears and rage in his son’s voice. He let Chris do the talking.
“It’s not your call.” And then, “Why did I get hit? Out of all the people crossing the street in L.A. Why me?”
But they both knew the answer.
“Son. Arturo Delgado is dead . . . it can’t happen again.”
“But I still hurt. And I don’t want to hurt. Goddamn it, I want it to stop. And I can’t tell anyone but you. Shit. I got Psych One in fifteen. Maybe they can explain why I’m messed up.”
Chris clicked off.
Jack let out a labored sigh. Seeing a blur, he wiped his right eye. And then the other. His damn eyes kept filling. Shit.
When his vision finally cleared, he looked up, into the rearview mirror, and saw a twentysomething Hispanic male, pumping his bike. Hard. As hard as his attitude.
Jack swiped his eyes again. The bike was thirty feet away and closing.
Jack saw a glint of silver as the rider pulled back his gray hoodie, grabbed his midnight special, and held it straight down, tight at his side. Twenty feet. Jack lurched forward to grab his concealed weapon, under the front seat, but the seat belt cinched and snugged him tighter.
The rear window exploded.
Jack reflexively slipped down in his seat and on a two count, threw the driver’s-side door open as the next gunshot blew out the windshield.
The cyclist smashed into the opened door.
He was thrown forward over his handlebars, his pistol fired wildly as the young gangbanger flipped up and over, and landed hard on his back in front of Jack’s car. His flopping head made solid contact with the concrete. His pistol skittered against the curb.
The door to the Mustang, ripped off its hinges, went spinning into oncoming traffic that was caught unawares. Brakes squealed. Horns blared.
Jack unbuckled his seat belt, leaped from the car. Rushing forward, he grabbed the kid’s pistol. When he ascertained that the gunman was out cold, he popped the lid of his trunk, pulled out a set of plastic cuffs, rolled his would-be executioner over onto his stomach, and bound his wrists. La Eme was tattooed on the killer’s neck. The Mexican Mafia. Jack sat on the curb and fought to catch his breath.
J.D., the owner of Bruffy’s Tow and Police Impound, walked calmly across the street and handed Jack a phone. “Nine-one-one. Can’t say you don’t keep things interesting around here.” He looked down at Jack’s prisoner, shook his head, and spit on the ground.
Jack spoke to the 911 operator while J.D. picked up the Mustang’s door, kicked the bent bike to the curb, and directed traffic safely around the action.
“I’ll tow you to Platinum,” he said. “You ought to set up a running account.”
J.D. was dead serious and Jack couldn’t disagree. He wearily handed him back his phone as two black-and-whites came screaming up Glencoe.
17
“Who is this Big Daddy?” Sheik Ibrahim asked with genuine interest. The diminutive man was a Sunni tribal leader from the Anbar province of Iraq. He had attended private school in London with Malic, and the men were distant cousins—part of the same extended tribe. They shared the same bloodline from three generations past.
They had also shared an affection for an undergraduate student named Kayla. Though Iraqi, she was a rare natural blonde. She was a prize. The sheik was the first to date her, but Malic had won her hand.
The sheik’s eyes were glued to his television screen as Angelica Cardona tore up a first-act monologue from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof . She was fully invested in Maggie the Cat, and her performance was both poignant and true, with a depth of emotion she had only aspired to before her abduction.
“It will be you ,most esteemed,” Malic said with the ease of a politician. “She is an even better choice. Life happens. But this one, she has seen
“Not important right now.”
“Fuck you.”
“Chris—”
“Don’t tell me what’s important!”
Jack could hear tears and rage in his son’s voice. He let Chris do the talking.
“It’s not your call.” And then, “Why did I get hit? Out of all the people crossing the street in L.A. Why me?”
But they both knew the answer.
“Son. Arturo Delgado is dead . . . it can’t happen again.”
“But I still hurt. And I don’t want to hurt. Goddamn it, I want it to stop. And I can’t tell anyone but you. Shit. I got Psych One in fifteen. Maybe they can explain why I’m messed up.”
Chris clicked off.
Jack let out a labored sigh. Seeing a blur, he wiped his right eye. And then the other. His damn eyes kept filling. Shit.
When his vision finally cleared, he looked up, into the rearview mirror, and saw a twentysomething Hispanic male, pumping his bike. Hard. As hard as his attitude.
Jack swiped his eyes again. The bike was thirty feet away and closing.
Jack saw a glint of silver as the rider pulled back his gray hoodie, grabbed his midnight special, and held it straight down, tight at his side. Twenty feet. Jack lurched forward to grab his concealed weapon, under the front seat, but the seat belt cinched and snugged him tighter.
The rear window exploded.
Jack reflexively slipped down in his seat and on a two count, threw the driver’s-side door open as the next gunshot blew out the windshield.
The cyclist smashed into the opened door.
He was thrown forward over his handlebars, his pistol fired wildly as the young gangbanger flipped up and over, and landed hard on his back in front of Jack’s car. His flopping head made solid contact with the concrete. His pistol skittered against the curb.
The door to the Mustang, ripped off its hinges, went spinning into oncoming traffic that was caught unawares. Brakes squealed. Horns blared.
Jack unbuckled his seat belt, leaped from the car. Rushing forward, he grabbed the kid’s pistol. When he ascertained that the gunman was out cold, he popped the lid of his trunk, pulled out a set of plastic cuffs, rolled his would-be executioner over onto his stomach, and bound his wrists. La Eme was tattooed on the killer’s neck. The Mexican Mafia. Jack sat on the curb and fought to catch his breath.
J.D., the owner of Bruffy’s Tow and Police Impound, walked calmly across the street and handed Jack a phone. “Nine-one-one. Can’t say you don’t keep things interesting around here.” He looked down at Jack’s prisoner, shook his head, and spit on the ground.
Jack spoke to the 911 operator while J.D. picked up the Mustang’s door, kicked the bent bike to the curb, and directed traffic safely around the action.
“I’ll tow you to Platinum,” he said. “You ought to set up a running account.”
J.D. was dead serious and Jack couldn’t disagree. He wearily handed him back his phone as two black-and-whites came screaming up Glencoe.
17
“Who is this Big Daddy?” Sheik Ibrahim asked with genuine interest. The diminutive man was a Sunni tribal leader from the Anbar province of Iraq. He had attended private school in London with Malic, and the men were distant cousins—part of the same extended tribe. They shared the same bloodline from three generations past.
They had also shared an affection for an undergraduate student named Kayla. Though Iraqi, she was a rare natural blonde. She was a prize. The sheik was the first to date her, but Malic had won her hand.
The sheik’s eyes were glued to his television screen as Angelica Cardona tore up a first-act monologue from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof . She was fully invested in Maggie the Cat, and her performance was both poignant and true, with a depth of emotion she had only aspired to before her abduction.
“It will be you ,most esteemed,” Malic said with the ease of a politician. “She is an even better choice. Life happens. But this one, she has seen
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