Snatched (22 page)

The
images were constant, relentless and they
sickened her to the stomach.

On their way to the hotel Dele had stopped at
Roscoe's where he picked up a chicken and waffles dinner for her.
As delicious as it smelled, t
he dinner still
sat
in the Styrofoam container untou
ched; her stomach couldn't handle anything right now. The bats were back along with butterflies, bees and a whole host of other creatures that made her insides flutter.

She looked over at the night stand, this one much nicer than the one back at Dele's hotel room. Nice wood, nice carving. On top of its surface lay the wallet Dele had handed to her earlier. She didn't know how much money was left inside
but he'd said it would be enough for another night here.

Even that thought unnerved her. Another night in the hotel would mean that Dele wasn't coming back.
Wasn't c
oming back to her
. His words echoed in her mind.

As did that last kiss. It
had taken her by surprise as well as her
emotional surrender
to it. It turned the earlier sex into
something she hadn't anticipated.

She walked over and touched the wallet, thinking of his fingerprints on it, thinking that it might be all that she would have left after tonight.

Why couldn't she have met him before he joined
up with
the Demons, when she might have had a chance to talk him out of th
at
horrible move and avoided all of this.

She
spread open the leather case
, not searching for money but something
, anything,
with his picture on it. But
lookin
g through its compartments she found
nothing. No cards of any kind
, no picture
.
Nothing even wit
h his name on it. She realized that
she didn't know his last name.

She guessed
the deliberate absence of any identification
was
his
safeguard in case he was pulled in by the cops.
No names, no photos meant he would be that much harder to identify during an arrest.
With that thought s
he was
immediately
taken aback about how her mind was
working now. A
few days
ago, she would have shaken a reproachful head at the subterfuge, totally siding with the authorities against just another criminal.

Now she was thinking like a criminal, empathizing with a gang member in his quest to maintain anonymity.

She started to close the wallet and replace it on
the nightstand w
hen something caught her eye. Just the edge of a paper of some kind peeking from the seam. Not a
regular
compartment
like the rest
, but a compartment
nonetheless
. Sewn in such a way to hide whatever was in it. The constant handling as well as the jostling in his back pocket must have loosene
d the thread exposing the hidden partition.

She pulled out the yellow paper. It was lined and seemingly torn from a larger sheet of lined notebook. On it was just a number. No name to identify it.

The area code was not a
California
code that much she recognized. She started to
put
it back into its hiding place
, then hesitated. Obv
iously the number might belong
to someone he wanted to maintain contact with despite his risky activities. Maybe it was a relative…or even a girlfriend. It could be anybody.

If he died tonight this person
might
have the right to know, a right to claim his body.
And that
if
wasn't just a theoretical one. The odds were against him surviving. He was already wounded which might throw off his fighting ability.

Even without the injury she knew in her heart that he wasn't the killer she'd first thought him to be. Every action since he'd been forced by the gang
to snatch her had shown
a humanity that was absent with the other members she'd been exposed to. He could have killed her several times over, taken sexual advantage of her
when they were alone. Instead
he'd
done
everything to prevent that.

She couldn't see him shooting or stabbing anyone in cold blood. Not that she didn't think he wouldn't do it to protect someone.

She knew that if she hadn't killed Roach when she did, Dele would have done so to protect her.

She looked at the number and picked up the hotel phone
from its cradle
. She dialed 9 to get the outside line and with trepidation keyed the digits, not sure she was doing the right thing.

Whoever's voice she had been expecting she certainly didn't expect to hear, "
Eric
, why are you calling this number on a general line? Man you know that's outside
ATF
protocol."

For a second she stood
there
in confusion,
not sure she hadn't misdialed.

"Hello?" the man's voice queried, this time insistent. "Who the hell is this?"

ATF? Wasn't that the government department that went after criminals who dealt  drugs and other illegal things like guns? Who was Eric?

A thought occurred to her. Was Dele some sort of government informant? Had he been giving information to the ATF? Maybe that was the reason he was running with a gang. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense.

He wasn't a true gang member. But if that was the case, he could be in some serious trouble tonight, more trouble than she had anticipated.

The voice was wary as it asked for the second time, "Who is this?"

"I…I'm calling about Dele…"

"How do you know about Dele? Lady, identify yourself right now. Don't think you can get away
either
. We've got a trace already set up."

She knew from too much procedural television that it was unlikely they had traced her this quickly. And from the
stern
tone of his voice, he
was obviously worried about whatever was going on being compromised.

"I'm a friend of Dele's. He's in a lot of trouble…"

"Yeah, what kind of trouble?"

"There's a fight tonight between t
he Demons and a Jamaican ga
ng. They've pulled Dele into it. He didn't want to go. A
nd he's already wounded
, a knife wound
.
Please y
ou have to find them
, stop them.
"
The words came rushing out in a breathless flood.

Seconds of silence passed
and she wondered if she would have to repeat herself. When t
he
man finally answered
,
his tone was one of guarded concern, not strident like before
.

"Do you know where this fight is going down?"

"No," she moaned helplessly. "But if you're the ATF, don't you keep files on gang activity? Didn't he call it in?"

"No," the man said and she could hear the frustration behind the word. "L
ook, thank you for calling
. You said
the Demons were facing
a Jamaican gang?"

"Yes,
and the leader's name is
uhm, let me think…something like
Corrall,
" she said a little more hopefully.

"OK then. I want you to keep this information to yourself. Don't even call the police on this."

"But how are you
going to
…"?

"Don't worry about it," he said, cutting her off.
"
We've got ways of tracking down hideouts and regular gang venues. If what you say is true, we'll find them." The finality of his words comforted her some but she still had to say, "Please hurry."

He didn't answer. Instead she heard a click and knew that he had disconnected the call.

As she hung up the phone, she wondered if she had done the right thing. Maybe her assumptions were wrong
about his working as an informant
. Maybe she'd gotten Dele into worse trouble
than w
hat he was facing
tonight.
He could do hard time for all of this.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, cradled her head in her hand, second-guessing herself.

Then she raised her head, pushing away the guilt. In the end, she would prefer him in prison than in his grave.

Both choices
were
horrible, but one
was much
more permanent than the other.

In either case,
she wouldn't be seeing him again. Even if he survived,
he definitely wouldn't want to see her
if he was sent to prison and discovered she was the one
who
rat
ted
him out.

She closed her eyes, a headache brewing behind her temples. She smelled the chicken, knew that she should eat to stave off the pain. The bats and butterflies were gone; there was
just emptiness
.

The emptiness echoed all through her.

San Fer
nando Valley was the
headquarters
of
several
California
gangs
including the
infamous
Familia Locos and The Green Lanterns,
whose designation was
an obvious trademark violation but when you're in the business of violating more serious laws
pesky trademark laws
hardly mattered
.
The ATF
bureau
working out of California had
gleaned a
lot of information on the various crews simply from
reconnaissance
by other undercover agents.
The
Jamaicans, however, remained an enigmatic group, undesignated so far with any name other than their country of origin, which was in some ways a smart move. Harder to track. The only thing Dele had been able to surmise about the gang was that they were
stealthy dealers in various drugs and arms. They were also rumored to be ruthless killers.

This night wasn't going down as easily as Rez hoped.

They were on
San Fernando Road
. The chill air whipped
Dele's
face as his bike
rode
among the horde. Despite the chill, he felt he was on fire. Probably a fever starting up which meant that he was feeling the first signs of an infection.

Even if he survived the fighting, he might not make it through the next few days. Infections could get nasty. He'd seen them take out some big, fit
officer
s after gun wounds went septic.

It was hard to maintain an adequate speed and he found himself falling behind
on several legs
.
But he knew that even if Rez couldn't track him among the horde, there were other eyes checking him, making sure he didn't take any sudden detours.

He was basically a prisoner now. He'd shown that he wasn't down for this fight and to Rez and the crew that equaled disloyalty. And disloyalty equaled harsh recrimination, including death.

So in addition to dying by a Jamaican's bullet or an infection from his knife wound, he might take a deliberate bullet from one of "his own."

And there was no way he could stop it.

So he trudged on, maneuvering the Harley
despite his weakness
, mentally trying to stave off the
inertia arising
from his earlier loss of blood, trying to steel himself for the fight ahead. Thinking of Leanne Strauss, thinking of the nameless bodies buried in the Mojave, allowing those memories to embolden him.

But the one thing that made him really want to outlive this night and the nights
after
was the memory of
that last kiss with
Nailah and his promise to her. Maybe he was hoping for more than she was willing to
offer
, given the circumstances of their coming together.

But he wanted that chance.
He wanted a better life than he had lived so far
and he could see her in that life
.

They continued for several miles until Rez sent
up
a signal with his hand. T
he tacit command
traveled back
along
the queue of bikers.
The bikes
slowed, the smell of diesel strong in the wind.
They had passed the rock quarries
at the southernmost end of the Valley
and
the bikes
sat beneath
the San Rafael H
ills
just a distance f
rom the
San Gabriel Mountains
.
T
he
La Cañada Valley
separated the ranges
and tributaries flowed west out of the Hills and emptied into the Verdugo Wash.