Grave Consequences (17 page)

Charlie looked up as Gordon turned north onto Second Street. “The next east-west street is Willow,” Gordon announced.

There was a thud—the sound of a slamming car door—then Clarence's voice came in clearly over the monitor's speaker. “It's time to get out of here, Leroy. Head downtown to that truck stop off of Gold. We'll go in for coffee and make sure we're seen. I don't want to be anywhere near this place while that bastard is being punished.”

“Right, boss,” Leroy's voice came out loud and clear. There was the sound of a racing engine and the change in tone from the shifting of car gears.

Charlie looked at the blip on the display. It was moving now.

“I wonder what bastard he's talking about?” Gordon looked over at Charlie. “It can't be us.”

Charlie shook his head, signaling with his hand for silence. He had a sinking feeling he already knew.

“Slow down. Don't do anything that'll get us pulled over. We're still too close to the warehouse,” Clarence ordered. “I want eyewitnesses who can place us elsewhere while that weasel is being laid out.”

“Don't worry, C.J.,” Leroy replied. “They'll take their time punishing Biggs. And if it turns out he's really a cop, I guess that's just too bad.”

“Damn. Biggs is Al,” Gordon exclaimed, speeding up.

Several seconds of silence went by before they heard country-western music coming from the SUV.

“No need to follow Clarence now. We've got to bail out your brother,” Gordon concluded. “Right?”

“Yeah, and we might need to go in hot.” Charlie turned off the monitor. “They have Al somewhere up that alley,” Charlie said, pointing ahead. “There's a warehouse.”

Gordon drove down the block so they could take a look. The building was a three-story brick-and-stone structure running the entire length of the block, lined with large windows on the second story. There were two sets of doors facing the streets, and Charlie read “For Rent or Lease” and a phone number on each as they passed.

Gordon made a right turn onto Rascon. The end of the warehouse had no exits or windows, just blank walls three stories high. Halfway along the wall he pulled over to the curb, parked, and turned off the engine.

They slipped out, pistols in their holsters just inside their jackets, then shut the doors quietly.

“I don't know how much time we have, bro,” Gordon said, keeping his voice low. “From what Clarence and his driver said, it sounded like they were going to beat it out of Al.”

“Unless he's handcuffed or drugged, that'll take some doing. Al has skills,” Charlie said as they walked down the sidewalk toward the rear corner and the alley entrance. “He's going to do some damage of his own.”

“Maybe they have a guy who can take him,” Gordon said, coming up beside Charlie.

“I don't know if
I
could take Al, Gordo,” Charlie whispered as they crossed the alley. He took a quick look behind them. Checking their six—covering their backs—was a practiced tactic from their Special Ops days.

“Really?” Gordon asked. “You think Al could take
me
?”

Charlie laughed, feeling the humor. “Hell, Gordon, it would take
both
Henry boys to lay you out. Jayne's the only one in the family who could really beat the crap out of you.”

They kept walking, and Gordon looked puzzled as he glanced over his shoulder. “I thought Jayne was the debate club type.”

“She is … was. The reason why Jayne can beat us up is because we can't stop laughing long enough to defend ourselves. It's a hoot. She yells and flails with both fists at once. One time she broke Al's nose with a lucky punch.”

They stopped close to the building wall, out of view from the warehouse doors now, and Charlie took a look around the corner. “There's a wide loading dock with stairs at both ends and a big double bay overhead door in the center. Farther down is another overhead door, completely open, with a gentle up-ramp. Inside, there's a light on, not very bright, probably deep inside. There are no windows at street level. No vehicles are parked anywhere I could see, so they must have driven up the ramp and are inside the warehouse,” Charlie concluded.

“They'll have someone watching the alley, you think?” Gordon asked. “Oh, and did you see any cameras?”

“Too dark. If they have a security guard watching monitors they'll see us coming, but I'm thinking we'll get to the door unnoticed. When was the last time guys didn't stop what they were supposed to be doing to watch a fight?” Charlie replied. “Let's walk down the alley along the back wall.”

“If the security is with the others, they'll have to poke their heads out to see us,” Gordon approved. “And once we're inside…”

“We take them out and free Al without shooting anyone.”

“We're worth six of those punks in hand-to-hand—sooner or later they'll start shooting,” Gordon reminded. “Or gang-tackle us.”

“So we'll have to get the drop on them and take away their guns.”

Gordon nodded. “Let's pray they're as stupid as their boss.”

“I've got an idea,” Charlie whispered.

“Hope it's a good one.”

*   *   *

“Police!” Charlie yelled, holding out his wallet with his license photo showing as he stepped from behind a parked car. Beneath the fluorescent light fixture in the rear half of the warehouse garage was a loose circle of eight men. In the center of the audience were two bloodied men throwing punches.

The laser sight on his Beretta shifted back and forth slowly as the red dot landed on one man, then the next. That held their attention. The big Hispanic man exchanging blows with Al turned to look and Al took the cheap shot. He hammered his opponent with a fist to the side of his face. The guy sagged to the concrete floor, spitting out blood and saliva.

“Only one cop? There are eight of us,” one of the punks muttered, reaching for a pistol at his belt.

“Count again, dickhead!” Gordon yelled, stepping out from behind a parked car, the laser beam from his sight flashing in the man's face.

“Don't shoot! It's okay, I'm cool,” the man responded, blinking at the laser light in his eyes and raising his hands slowly.

Al took a stumbling step, paused to gather himself, then stood stiffly erect and reached over to grab the man's weapon. “On the floor, all of you assholes, or I'll blow you away.”

The men reluctantly got down on their knees, not taking their eyes off Al.

“Over here, Biggs,” Charlie ordered Al, watching Fasthorse's crew instead of his brother. Gordon had stepped back, weapon still out but now protected by an engine block.

“I'm going to point my sights at one man at a time, when that happens, that man will take out his weapon very slowly and slide it across the floor toward me,” Charlie instructed clearly. “My fellow officers will have their weapons aimed at the rest of you, so don't do anything fatal.”

“You're not cops, you're the pawnbroker guys!” one of the men said clearly. “You can't do this!”

“And yet here we are. Unless you're planning on taking a dirt nap tonight, you'd be wise to pull your head out of that dark place and follow our instructions,” Gordon ordered.

The warehouse grew very quiet. Charlie aimed the laser point on the closest man. “Two fingers, only,” Charlie ordered. The man complied, bringing out a small semiauto that looked like a .32.

“Set it on the floor, then slide it over toward me,” Charlie ordered, aiming the laser beam at the guy's crotch. The man set the weapon on the concrete, then propelled it perhaps ten feet closer to Charlie across the floor.

“Okay, friends, now that you've seen how it's done…” Charlie added. “Next.”

When he got to the fourth guy in the circle, an older man wearing greasy coveralls, there was a hitch. “I'm a mechanic, I don't have a gun. Really, sir, don't shoot me.”

“Are you sure?” Charlie asked, directing the bright red beam at the man's pocket.

“It's my working knife. I'll show you,” the man replied, his voice faltering slightly. He brought out a four-inch lock-back knife, holding it between fingers and thumbs. “My son gave it to me for my birthday.”

“Okay, just set it down on the floor and scoot it over by the pistols,” Charlie said, glancing over at Gordon, who nodded in agreement. This man just worked here.

The process continued until there were five semiautos of various sizes and calibers and a big revolver scattered along the floor between the group and Charlie. As he placed the dot on the chest of the last man on his knees, the guy Al had decked, groaned, rolled over, and tried to sit up.

“Stay, down, boy,” the mechanic, who was closest, whispered harshly.

“Hey, why is it so quiet all of a sudden?” came a voice from a walkway overhead.

Charlie looked up just as a security guard noticed Al pointing his weapon at the groggy boxer. The guard drew his pistol.

“Gun!” Gordon yelled.

Al turned and looked up, then took a bullet to his shoulder, flinching but not going down.

Charlie fired high, forcing the armed guard to jump back.

Everyone jumped to their feet and scattered, running for the closest door or passage.

“I'll pin him down!” Charlie yelled, firing another gunshot up toward the walkway. Gordon grabbed hold of Al and pulled him outside. Charlie followed, taking one last shot in the direction of the guard.

“Get him to the pickup!” Charlie yelled, watching for trouble. Two of the men from inside were fleeing down the alley but in the opposite direction, and Charlie ignored them.

Al stuck his pistol in his belt and shook Gordon off, putting his hand on his wound to stem the blood. “Forget running off, I'm fine. Call DuPree! That warehouse is full of stolen shit.”

“Go ahead, Gordon, I've got our six,” Charlie replied, now shuffling quickly backward, like a basketball player on defense. So far, nobody had poked their heads out of the bay door yet.

Gordon ended the quick call by the time they reached his pickup. “Somebody's already sent a message to DuPree and he's on his way. Ambulance too. Hang on, Al,” Gordon said.

Hearing the roar of a V-8, they turned and saw a sedan race out of the alley, swerve to the right, then accelerate down Rascon, heading east.

“I counted four of them in the car,” Charlie said, watching the fading taillights as they stood on the sidewalk beside the truck.

“Nobody's sticking around, except maybe for the security guard and that mechanic. They call him Jack. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Al pointed out.

“What the hell happened?” Charlie asked, still watching for trouble, weapon down by his side.

“How the hell should I know?” Al replied angrily. “We were standing around beside the cars in there while four of the guys bragged about scaring the crap out of you two. Then Clarence got a call. He put away the phone, pulled a gun and told everyone I was a cop. Suddenly I was facing a roomful of firepower. I denied it, but Clarence said his source was a hundred percent reliable. He told Melvin, the big guy in his crew, to make sure I wasn't going to be a problem. Then he and Leroy took off in his SUV.”

“We overheard Clarence talking about it when we came into the neighborhood. He said that Biggs was going to get a beat down,” Gordon added, opening the pickup and reaching behind the seat for a first aid kit.

“How'd you…? Never mind. You two play things your way, right?” Al said, watching as Gordon brought out a wound dressing. Charlie's pal had plenty of experience treating gunshot wounds while deployed.

“Yeah, and if we hadn't been coming to check out the warehouse, you'd be ground hamburger by now.”

“Hey, I could have taken the guy.” Al grimaced as Gordon tore away some of his shirt to expose a nasty wound.

“Tell that to your face. You're even uglier than usual tonight, bro,” Charlie joked. He looked up toward Second Street, hearing approaching sirens.

“Yeah, well, enough bullshitting. We need to get our stories straight before APD arrives,” Al said, flinching as Gordon applied the sterile, absorbent dressing.

“Hopefully, DuPree will get here first,” Gordon said. “But let's put the weapons away just in case. If any other officers arrive first, they won't know who we are. We don't want to send the wrong signals.”

“And I'm not carrying a badge or valid ID,” Al pointed out.

“Great. Maybe we should just place our weapons on the hood, in plain sight—as much as I hate being disarmed…” Gordon suggested, wrapping the bandage in place with gauze, then taping the ends.

Charlie's phone rang. It was DuPree. Charlie spoke for less than thirty seconds, motioning them all into the truck while he spoke. Al climbed into the back, grunting and groaning.

“We're leaving, Gordon. Circle to Rio Grande Boulevard, then drive north to Rio Rancho—if you think you can hold off on further treatment another fifteen minutes, Al,” Charlie reported, getting in beside his brother in the back.

“The bullet is long gone. Let's roll,” Al responded. “DuPree wants me to avoid the attention?”

Charlie nodded as Gordon drove west, then turned north again on the next through street. “He'll call ahead and have someone there to treat you at the new hospital in Rio Rancho—actually the clinic wing, not the ER. Hopefully it won't make the news. Rio Rancho cops will cooperate, he insists. If the doctors say you can travel, DuPree wants us to take you out of the area, then lie low. Once you're settled, one of us will call him with the location and he'll arrange for twenty-four-hour protection.”

“Al, does Fasthorse know exactly who you are, or just that you're a cop?” Gordon asked. “That'll play into where we—you—go.”

“I don't really know. He never used my name, all he said was that I was an undercover cop,” Al replied. “There's no way I'm going home to the Rez until I find out. I've got Nedra and the boys, not to mention Dad, Mom, and Jayne to worry about now.”