Stranger Danger (18 page)

“
Si
and he was a stubborn mule like always.
 
Tell me how to get there.”

She grabbed her keys. “I’m going with
you.”

“No, it’s not a place for women.”

Sara pulled out the pistol, a Sig
Sauer Santiago had handed her. “I’m not
women
,”
she said. “I’m his woman and I’m going.”

Luis rolled his eyes. “I don’t have
time to argue.
 
He may be dead
already.
 
Let’s go.”

In the car, she fumbled with the keys
because her hands trembled.
 
Luis cussed,
then
said, “I’ll drive.
 
Tell me where and how to get there.”

“They’re down by the river,” she said
as he took off with speed. “How do you know they plan to kill him?”

“I still write for the
Times
,” he said. “I cover crime and
gangs in particular, so I have sources.
 
I’ve kept up with some informants within M13 to know what’s going
on.
 
I’ve got one dude who watched
Santiago for me.
 
I already knew he was
in trouble before he called, and I knew you were with him.
 
After I talked to Santiago, I got in touch with
Juan. He told me Enrique plans to kill Javier Morales.”

Her blood turned frigid. “Do they know
it’s Santiago and that he’s a cop?”

“I don’t think so,” Luis said as he
careened onto the interstate at a high speed. “Where do I exit to get there?”

Sara told him and he nodded. “Do they
know he’s your brother?”

“My informer?
Hell,
no.
 
He’s a druggie and a banger.
 
I wouldn’t want him to know.
 
He thinks I’m doing a story on Javier.”

As they careened through the night,
too fast for comfort, Sara wondered how they could stop an execution and asked
him.
 
Luis snorted as he lit an
unfiltered cigarette.
 
“I’ve called the
FBI, told them their agent from Arkansas went rogue, but if they’re not on
scene yet, I’ll have to deal with it.
 
Sangre tendrá
sangre
.
 
It’s a good thing we’re
from East LA, not the Valley.
 
Do you
know how to shoot, by the way, chica?”

“
Si,
Luis,”
she said. “Santiago taught me, long ago.”

His expression turned skeptical,
illuminated by the faint light of the dash. “Are you any good?”

“I’m damn good,” she said with pride,
in truth.

“Good,” he said. “That may come in
handy tonight.”

On Riverside Drive, Luis slowed and
cut the headlights.
 
He drove with slow
precision, apparently able to see through the gloom better than Sara
could.
 
“Do you know exactly where?”

“No.”

“Never mind, I’ll find them.”

On their second pass, Sara caught
sight of the figures beneath a picnic shelter at the 41
^st
Street
Plaza.
 
“Luis, I think that’s them.”

“
Si,
I think so, too.” He pulled over and parked beneath some trees. “We walk
from here.”

Before she could react, he was out of
the car and moving through the night with a panther’s stealth.
 
Sara followed and tried to mimic his
steps.
 
She did her best to keep back in
the shadows and to make as little noise as possible.
 
Once they reached a secluded spot near the
pavilion, Luis held up a hand and she halted in place.
 
“Now we wait,” he said. “And listen.”

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness,
Sara saw Santiago.
 
He stood a little
apart from the others, his back straight and his posture taut.
 
His right eye was swollen, well on the way to
being black and his cheek sported a small cut.
 
A trail of blood ran down his face.
 
Someone had tried to beat him, she thought, but when she glanced at
Santiago’s knuckles, they were scuffed.
 
He’d fought back, then, and held his own.
 
A breeze blew off the river and she caught
the scent of honeysuckle mingled with the harsher aroma of marijuana, sweat,
tobacco smoke, and beer.
 

The man who faced Santiago must be
Enrique, she guessed.
 
The intricate
tattoos worn by many M13 members covered his face and otherwise bald head.
 
His eyes were dark slits, and he had a
reptilian appearance, like a dangerous snake.
 
Sara guessed he must be in his forties, if not older, lean and
weathered.
 
His expression conveyed
anger, hostility, and he all but radiated with repressed violence.
 
A trio of
hombres
stood behind him, his bodyguards, each with a lethal manner.
 

In addition to Enrique and the three,
she counted five more.
 
Eight, she
thought, eight against three.
 
They were
hardened men, trained to kill, willing to risk everything.
 
The odds seemed against them, but then she
remembered how tough Santiago was, the things he’d done.
 
Luis, in their youth, had commanded
respect.
 
She’d been in a few fights,
held her own in some tough situations, but the real power surging through her
now came from love.
 
Sara realized she’d
do anything to save Santiago.

Spanish, spoken in a harsh voice,
reached her, but Sara failed to understand all of it.
 
Enrique, if it was the man, called Santiago
‘Javier’ more than once as he spoke of betrayal and retribution.
 
His words sharpened as he spoke and the
insults increased.
 
Through it all,
Santiago stood like a soldier, his face a mask.
 
He gave nothing away of his emotions, and pride swelled her heart, even
as terror claimed her soul.
  

The conversation grew more heated by
the moment and she spotted Enrique’s increasing agitation.
 
His face flushed with anger beneath the
tattoos. He’d act soon.
 
A few paces
ahead of her, Luis cocked his weapon, ready to fire.
 
Like her, he must have been aware of the
deteriorating situation. She prepared the pistol she carried too.
 
An eerie calm descended over Sara, almost a
fugue state as she anticipated action.

For a few minutes, time seemed to
cease.
 
The wind didn’t blow and sound
diminished.
 
Sara’s senses enhanced.
 
Although she watched the scene before her and
her focus remained on Santiago, she became almost feral, somehow wild.
 
When Enrique stepped forward and put a .357
against Santiago’s forehead, Luis gasped, but Sara reacted and rushed forward
to stop it.

Heedless of her safety, thoughtless of
anything but saving Santiago, she plunged forward with a loud cry.
 
She caught Luis’ whisper to stop as she
streaked past him but ignored it in her rush.
 
Sara plunged into the gang members and thrust herself between Enrique
and Santiago.
  
Then she lifted the
pistol and aimed it at Enrique’s throat.
 
He stood much taller than she and she couldn’t reach any higher. “Drop
it,
cabron.”

If she hadn’t been a woman or lacked
the element of surprise, Sara imagined they would’ve cut her down with rapid
fire.
 
Instead, Enrique stared at her. “
Ay, caramba,
what the fuck is this?”

An explosion roared in her ears and
the gangbanger leader’s face exploded in a gory spray of blood and bone.
 
Some of it rained across her hands and arms
as she stumbled back in horror.
 
At the
same time, multiple headlights panned across the scene, and Santiago shouted at
her.
 
Her ears were ringing from the
report and she struggled to make out his rapid-fire Spanish.
 
Through the roar, she thought he called her
crazy and urged her to get out of the way fast.
 
Someone pulled her to one side with rough hands.
 
She allowed it until she realized it wasn’t
Santiago or Luis but one of the bangers.
 
Sara jerked free and whirled around as numerous guns fired into the
night.
 

Luis grasped her. “Sara, move! Get out
of the way before you get killed.
 
I
think the FBI is here.
 
Andale!”

“Where’s Santiago?”
 
Gun shots echoed all around her and many
voices shouted in both English and Spanish.
 
“Santiago?”

She heard his voice and turned toward
it, in time to see him step over Enrique’s lifeless body, then shoot one of the
three bodyguards.
 
Sara shook out of
Luis’ grip and started toward Santiago.
 
Before she could, Santiago made a terrible sound.
 
Red blossomed across his chest like some
distorted flower and she screamed.
 
So
did someone else
and their words cut deep into her soul and scarred her heart.

“
El
esta
muerto
!”
Someone was dead but
who
? Not Santiago, please God, not him.

Her prayer was interrupted when something
fierce seared her thigh.
 
Intense pain
radiated from it and Sara glanced down.
 
Blood spurted from her upper leg.
 
Dizziness swirled her head and turned the scene into a nightmarish
merry-go-round.
 
Shadows crept closer and
spread until she saw nothing but utter blackness.
 
As she yielded to it, she thought she heard
Santiago scream her name and then she knew nothing more.

Chapter Thirteen

There were no colors anymore, nothing
but the most absolute black she’d ever known.
 
No light filtered through it or tempered it.
 
It was eternal night, one without any chance
of morning.
 
Her mind floated in the
endless void, confused and unable to focus.
 
Somewhere, pain existed but it seemed distant, almost unreal.
 
She knew it existed but for now, she did not
feel it.
 
If she focused or tried, agony
would devour her so Sara retreated deeper into the dark cocoon around her.
 

A sense she didn’t belong here niggled
at the edges of her consciousness. She tried to push the idea away but it
remained, as insistent as an itch.
 
In
her zone of semi-comfort, one thing bothered her – the abject loneliness.
 
Sara hated being alone.
 
She craved something.
 
No, someone.
 
She yearned for someone and needed them, but a terrible voice within her
soul whispered he was dead.
Muerto.

His name echoed in her mind and filled
her heart. Santiago.
 
Her
Santiago.
 
Bits of memory
surfaced, floating through the darkness like flotsam in a flood.
 
The more pieces she saw, the deeper her inner
anguish and fear.
 
Gunshots echoed in her
mind, blood ran red, and she ran from the memories and drifted, barely aware,
uncertain, and cold.

When next she held a coherent thought,
she decided hell must be frigid, as barren as a winter wasteland.
 
California raised, she loathed the cold
weather.
 
She didn’t like the snow, but
she hated the ice more.
 
It froze her in
place now, like a winter storm, coating roads and power lines with deadly
ice.
 
She couldn’t move but realized if
she didn’t, she might die soon, if she were not already dead.

A voice penetrated her darkness, a
man’s voice.
 
His broken tone hurt to
hear, so fragile and so filled with desperation.
 
Sara listened, the lilt of his accent
familiar. She realized, after several repetitions, he recited the prayer to St.
Jude, patron of hopeless situations.
 
In
her mind, she began to follow the words as he said them, remembering each one
from the past.

“
Oh,
gloriosisimo
Apostol San Judas!,
siervo
fiel
y amigo de Jesus, el
nombre
del
traidor
que
entrego
a
vuestro
querido
Maestro en
manos
de
sus
enemigos
ha
sido
la
causa
de
que
muchos
os
hayan
olvidado
,
pero
la
Iglesia
os
honra
e
invoca
universalmente
como
patron
de los
casos
dificules
y
desesperados
...”
he said and she named him.
 
Santiago.
 
If he prayed, he lived or else she had died too.