L.A. Wars (14 page)

“I kinda wondered why they didn't make more money off the TVs and stuff,” Julio admitted grudgingly. “But why's it so important that you got to tell me?”

“Because I want you tell the others. Tomorrow, when you get to the corner of Hillsboro, tell them what I've just told you. Tell them they're being made fools of. And one way or another they're going to end up paying with their lives. In a prison cell or a coffin. Tell them that.”

“In front of Hammer? He
would
beat me then.”

“Hammer's not going to be there. Not out in the open, anyway. And neither are any of the other leaders. They're going to let you guys take the heat. And I'm hoping you're too smart to get burned, Julio. Think it over.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I guess I will.”

“And, Julio—don't double-cross me. Don't think you can save yourself by going to Hammer tonight and telling him what I said.”

The laughter was edged with star-struck surprise. “Double-cross the Hawk, man? You think I'm
nuts?
I still ain't convinced I'm not talking to the devil right now.…”

fifteen

The street-gang chieftains were supposed to meet at Hyde Park at ten
P.M
.

Hawker was there by nine.

For the second day in a row Flaherty left Hawker's tail to another officer. It gave Hawker more confidence in his escape plan. He used the electric time switch he had bought at the appliance store to turn the bungalow's stereo and lights on and off.

At eight thirty the stereo and the living-room lights would go on. At eleven both would switch off and the bathroom light would come on. It would stay on for ten minutes.

In the mind of the cop parked outside, Hawker would be spending another leisurely evening at home.

He would be wrong, of course.

At first dusk Hawker slid out the side window. He carried his equipment in a canvas duffel bag.

He jogged east toward the light and noise of Sepulveda Boulevard. When Hawker was sure Flaherty's man had not followed him, he hailed a cab. He gave the driver a fake address in Willow-brook, a suburb not far from Hillsboro. When Hawker judged they were near Hyde Park, he told the driver to stop. He said he wanted to walk the rest of the way.

Hyde Park was a cool mound of trees and rolling lawn in the slum sprawl near Starnsdale. There was playground equipment illuminated by the cold glare of vapor lights. Swings moved languidly on their chains in the Pacific wind.

Hawker made a casual trip through the park. Midway through was a wide fountain with running water. Underwater lights illuminated the fountain, but the overhead vapor light had been broken—shot out, probably.

It looked like a probable meeting place.

Hawker continued on to the south edge of the park. Except for a couple of winos sleeping on street-side benches, the place was deserted.

Hawker returned to the fountain, studying the heavy oak trees that surrounded it. Over one thick limb he tossed a grappling hook, then tested it with his full weight. Carrying the bitter end of the rope, Hawker climbed high into the branches of another tree.

Hawker knew he might have to move—and move quickly.

The rope would help.

He pulled the rope tight. If they noticed it at all, it would look like a power cable.

Straddling a limb, Hawker braced his back comfortably against the tree. From the pack he took a cut-down version of the Cobra crossbow. It was made of light, alloy metal and had a heavy woven drawcord. By breaking the crossbow over his knee, he caused the self-cocking device to lock the hundred-pound pull drawcord in place.

The Cobra had a killing range of two hundred meters. The short aluminum shafts—or bolts—traveled a hundred yards a second.

Hawker inserted a three-edge kill bolt and rested the crossbow on his knee.

It was nine twenty
P.M
.

He waited.

The Panther chieftains arrived half an hour later. Razor came sliding through the shadows, whistling softly. His hands were in his pockets, as if he were out for an evening stroll. The earring glinted in the lobe of his ear.

He made a relaxed trip around the fountain perimeter, his quick eyes surveying the area. When he was sure it was safe, he waved his two lieutenants in.

Amin was dressed in the same clothes he'd worn when Hawker first saw him. The chain was still belted around his huge waist. His belly protruded from the open Levi's jacket. His black boots glistened and his massive biceps flattened themselves against his sides.

Blade came next. His wild Afro haircut waved in the wind like a headdress. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. There was a distant, dreamy look in his eyes as he mechanically opened and closed his switchblade. Hawker guessed he had recently shot up.

“They ain't here yet,” Razor said.

Amin looked nervous. His massive, black gorilla face tracked back and forth, like a radar dish. “Don't like it, man. Don't like this joint operation shit.”

“We done it before. Can't operate without the Hammer. He got the connections.”

“Yeah, but we never done it without the soldiers. What if they catch on, man? They put two and two together, and we out of business.”

“Them boys ain't gonna put nothing together.”

“Still don't like it, Razor. We ain't never let the soldiers mix alone before.”

“And we never had this Hawk dude sneaking around killin' us “before, either, Amin. Just relax, man. Relax.”

“What if Hammer set us up? What if he brought us here to hit us?'

Razor shook his head, getting weary of the conversation. “He needs us, too, man. If it's a trap, I'll recognize it.”

“Then what?”

“Then we kill
them
first. You carrying?”

Amin patted the bulge beneath his jacket. “Got a .44 Magnum. Blow their fucking Spanish asses away, they mess with Amin.”

Blade chuckled as if in approval. He said nothing. Hawker noted the bulge beneath his jacket.

They were all armed.

A few minutes later Hammer arrived. He was backed by the wolfish sexual deviant, Lobo, and Jesús, the self-styled prophet. Hawker noted that Matador, the suave drug addict, wasn't with them. He wondered if he might be somewhere in the bushes, gun ready.

It was not a friendly group.

The animosity and distrust among the four lieutenants was like a sour odor in the air. They glared at each other, playing stare-down like kids.

Hammer ignored it. He pawed at his nose like a boxer and spat. “We got problems,” he began.

Razor stiffened. “You said it was smooth, man. You said it was all set.”

“That was last night. My connection's upset about something. He's going to meet us here. He wouldn't talk on the phone. He's late.”

Razor jammed his fists on his hips. “Don't be fucking with us, Hammer! You pull any shit with us—”

“Calm down, damn it!” Hammer snapped. “You think I want trouble, man? All I want is a clean operation. If my connection says we got trouble, then we gotta listen. He wants to make his money, too, and he knows if he ain't straight, then we go someplace else.”

Jesús crouched suddenly. “Someone's coming, man!”

“It's him,” said Hammer. “Relax.”

Razor waved Amin and Blade back into the bushes. “If this dude's as straight as you say he is, then you won't mind if we just sort of disappear for a minute, will you?” Razor said, testing.

“I don't give a fuck what you do,” Hammer snapped.

The footsteps were getting closer—a big man not used to moving quietly. Twigs broke beneath him, and the breathing was heavy.

Hawker was not surprised to see who walked into the dim glow of the fountain.

The man Hammer referred to as his “connection” was huge. His face was red, visibly agitated. He wore black slacks and a straw-colored Cuban shirt. He took a cigarette and lighted it before he spoke.

Hawker noticed that the man's hands shook slightly as he held the lighter.

It was Sully McGraw.

“I couldn't talk on the phone,” McGraw said without preamble. “That bastard's got a tap on. Has to.”

Hammer's face was like rock. “You could have called from a pay phone, McGraw. You can't tap every pay phone in Starnsdale.”

“It's not my phone that's tapped, dumb shit,” McGraw said, exhaling smoke. “It's yours. How else do you figure Hawker knew about your hit tonight? Christ, he called Cranshaw—the watch group's leader. Told him all about your plans. Told him what time, where, and how many to expect. The bastards are laying for you. They're ready.”

“How you know that, man?” demanded Razor as his men followed him out of the bushes.

“You're with the Panthers?”

“Yeah.”

“Then he's probably got a tap on you, too. It's a guy named Hawker. A red-haired guy. Says he's an ex-cop, but I think he's with the feds. I joined the watch group a year ago to sort of keep an eye on things. When Hawker showed up, I smelled something rotten. The fucker's smart. Too smart. When I started reading in the paper about your people getting bumped off, it all started to make sense.”

“You think he knows about the fencing operation?” Hammer asked. “Because if he knows, we might as well pack—”

“I'm already cashed in and packed,” interrupted McGraw. “Believe me, I wouldn't leave a chain of pawnshops and a hundred-thousand-dollar house behind if I didn't think my ass was on the line—”

“Wait a minute,” Hammer cut in, his face grown suddenly pale. “If he knows about our plans for the hit tonight, then—”

“Then he probably knows about us meeting right now,” Razor finished, drawing a revolver from his jacket.

In a moment they all had guns out—including McGraw. Hawker drew back into the shadows of the tree as their eyes darted back and forth, searching the cover. As they looked, the seven men backed into a loose circle.

Lobo was the first to notice the rope. Hawker watched him closely. He watched the pale, wolfish eyes following the rope. As Hawker watched, he thought about Lobo's police record. Sexual deviant. Child molester. Hawker wondered how many terrified kids had looked into those sick, sick eyes.

Lobo's eyes peered deeply into the shadows of the tree. Hawker drew back, holding perfectly still. Lobo started suddenly, and his eyes grew wide, His gun jumped toward Hawker, and his mouth opened as if to shout out a warning.

But the words never came.

Hawker lifted the modified Cobra and squeezed the trigger.

All the other men heard was a whistle of air and a thud. Lobo jolted to the ground, his hands scratching at his chest.

His mouth was still open as if to shout. Bloody bubbles formed on his lips. He studied the stub of plastic feathers which protruded from his chest, as if perplexed.

He died with the look of confusion frozen on his face.

“Son of a bitch!” shouted Razor as he and the others slowly realized what had happened. “Where in the fuck is he?”

“Over there!”

“Naw, it had to come from over
there!”

They flattened themselves on the ground, guns firing wildly into the bushes.

“Wait a minute!” yelled McGraw. “He's up there. In the tree!”

From his weapons cache Hawker had taken another Ingram. This one didn't have a silencer, but it no longer mattered. He grabbed the end of the rope and swung away toward the fountain.

A salvo of lead cracked branches behind him.

With the fountain between him and the others Hawker released the rope as he crashed through a wedge of bushes. He dived for the protection of the fountain's rock retainer and came up firing.

The chain-rattle bursts from the Ingram roared in his ears, the barrel hot in his left hand.

Hammer and Razor were standing side by side. Hawker swung the Ingram at them, as if making sweeping brushstrokes.

Hammer screamed and clawed at his throat. As Razor turned to look, his cheek exploded. The impact of slug against bone snapped Razor's head back, breaking his neck, and he collapsed to the ground as if he had been magically deboned.

Hammer writhed on the earth beside him, bleeding from two black holes in his neck.

With the same drug-dazed expression Jesus charged Hawker, the revolver in his hand spitting fire. The slugs smacked into the water inches from Hawker's head.

Hawker swiveled and squeezed off four shots in rapid fire. Jesús jerked backward as if absorbing a series of blows, spinning wildly. The fountain retainer caught him thigh-high, and he fell face first into the water.

The lighted spray began to glow red.

“You
dead
, motherfucker!”

It was Blade. Hawker hadn't noticed Blade circling around behind him. Hawker pivoted toward the voice just as Blade leaped toward him, the switchblade making a silver are toward his face.

Hawker ducked to the side, then cracked down hard on Blade's elbow with the metal butt of the Ingram.

Dug addict or not, Blade was quick. From his knees he grabbed the submachine gun, trying to wrestle it away. Hawker kicked him in the stomach twice, hard. When Blade released the weapon, Hawker locked his right fist on the black man's throat. He jerked up and away with all his force.

Clutching his ruined neck, Blade rolled over and over, his feet kicking wildly, his eyes bulging.

Something hit Hawker from behind. It was like being hit by a truck. He was being driven toward the rock retainer wall of the fountain. Something hard and cold was locked around his neck. Hawker forced his fingers under it, trying to stop the crushing weight on his throat.

It was a chain.

Amin's chain.

Amin was trying to ram him into the rock wall before finally choking him to death.

The wall rushed toward Hawker. His head roared from lack of oxygen. He punched backward, driving his elbow deep into Amin's stomach.

Amin didn't seem to notice.