Dead End Fix Page 16

  Do they know? Do they know I didn’t shoot that Pico?

  “Six Pack is dead,” Slow Time told him. “Shot down ’bout an hour ago over by where his lady lives.”

  “What? Who?” Kashawn didn’t know what else to ask. A brother dead?

  “They got Clash, too. Not fifteen minutes after Six Pack got hit.”

  Kashawn tried to put a face to his brother named Clash. He thought maybe he’d heard the name before but was pretty certain he’d never met him.

  “D’Loco’s callin’ us in.” The brother sitting next to him spoke. Kashawn didn’t know him, either. “Keepin’ us safe till we figure out what’s what.”

  “Is it the police?” Kashawn asked.

  The brother sitting next to him let out a disgusted sigh. “This ain’t how they roll. Besides, any trouble with the cops, we know what to do. It’s all ‘Yes, sir,’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Keep your hands in sight and do what you’re told. Let ’em take us off to jail. D’Loco have us out in an hour.”

  It was difficult for Kashawn to comprehend there might be a force greater than D’Loco. But he instantly dismissed any concern. D’Loco and his brothers would take care of him.

  “Then who?”

  “How about you shut the fuck up and let D’Loco tell us?”

  Kashawn shrank back against the seat and hung on while J-Fox careened through the neighborhood streets.

  —

  “See this?” D’Loco stood on a wooden chair, holding up a red ribbon. “Six Pack’s lady saw it go down. Brother ran by her place to drop off his envelope for her and the baby. Tiza say Six Pack just handed little Trayvon back to her. He was walkin’ to his car when they pulled up. Rolled down the window and shot Six Pack four times. Tiza start screaming. Heads runnin’ back to the house but watches from the window. Sees some punk ass jump outta the car, kick Six Pack in the head, and tie this on his wrist.”

  “That’s Pico colors!” Big Cheeks yelled out from the crowd of 97s jammed into the rooms of the clubhouse’s bottom floor. Kashawn weaved his way through shoulders and chests to stand next to him.

  “Damn straight it is. Tiza ran out to Six Pack once the shooters took off. Saw her man was dead. Recognized the tag. Got it here to me.”

  “Police come by?” A brother Kashawn didn’t know asked. “Best they don’t interfere.”

  A simmer of angry agreement rumbled through the crowd. Kashawn stood on his toes, craning to locate J-Fox. He spotted him in a far corner, his face a steely mask of vengefulness.

  “Clash dead too,” D’Loco continued. “Same thing. Same red tag.”

  Kashawn inched nearer to Big Cheeks as the gang’s bloodlust grew. Shouts came from all around him, cursing the Picos, vowing revenge.

  “Hold on.” D’Loco held up his hands and looked around the room, calling out individual brothers. “J-Fox…Mouse…Blue Man…” D’Loco’s eyes made another sweep of the room before landing on Kashawn. “And Green K. You my team. Picos want war, they gonna get it.”

  The walls and floors shook with the roar of 97 approval. Everyone in the house was shouting and raising fists in the air. Kashawn jammed his own arm up. He opened his mouth and pulled a growl from deep inside his gut. He wasn’t sure what was expected of him, but whatever D’Loco asked he’d gladly give.

  A chilled jolt of fresh air blasted the crowed house. Attention turned toward the front door as a short man with a deep scar on the side of his face pushed his way through the crowd, calling his leader’s name. D’Loco hopped off the chair and went to him, leaning down to hear this brother Kashawn had never seen before. He didn’t need to hear the words. The look on D’Loco’s face telegraphed that the news was no good.

  D’Loco held on to the short brother’s shoulder for several seconds. Then he climbed back on the chair and raised his right hand.

  “They got D’Andre too. Just now.” D’Loco’s eyes were cold steel. His voice wasn’t loud, but everyone heard the determined hatred.

  The earlier roar was replaced by ominous silence. Kashawn looked around the room, reading the revulsion on his brothers’ faces. The three brothers D’Loco had named to his war council stepped forward to stand in front of their leader. Kashawn joined them.

  “Teams of three,” D’Loco said. “Never leave each other’s side. Every 97 sleeps in the clubhouse. We got food last a few days. This last any longer, we figure out what to do. We go out two teams at a time. Rest of us stay here. Defend the house. Find them Picos and kill ’em where they stand. Don’t bother taggin’. Motherfuckers know who’s comin’. Let the bodies rot in the rain. Hit one, then get back here. Then the next team goes out.”

  Three men gave one another fist bumps before stepping forward. “We headin’ west on Stinson. Straight into Pico territory. Shouldn’t be more than a half hour to bag one.”

  D’Loco nodded.

  A voice called out from the side of the room. “Me, Dog, and Everclear. We a team. Take Parkway north. I know a club them Picos like to hang. We follow one home. Shoot him in his yard like they did Six Pack. We get lucky, maybe his lady and baby watch him bleed out.”

  D’Loco nodded again. He put his hands on his hips and took his time surveying the room. It seemed to Kashawn the man had the ability to look into the eyes of each of the few dozen men there. When it came time for D’Loco to notice him, icy fear raked down Kashawn’s gut.

  “We ready, then,” D’Loco said. “We didn’t start this war. But we damn sure ain’t gonna stop till we finish it.”

  Chapter 24

  Al Ghaydah, Yemen

  The black Mercedes-Benz AMG-S pulled to a stop behind three Cadillac SUVs parked in front of a weathered seaside warehouse. Any fishermen still using these ramshackle piers had left hours ago. The setting sun painted purple and red stripes across a darkening sky. The Gulf of Aden responded, shifting its color from electric blue to a deep shade of navy.

  “Who are they?” Abu Al Fared straightened the knot in his silk tie. Allie noted the gesture and wondered if this man—who supplied the richest and most privileged Arab citizens, including various members of the royal families, with vices their religion would never allow—was nervous. “I do not like surprises.”

  Allie thought Al Fared’s accent suited him well. It was a musical blend available only to those highborn Semites fortunate enough to have been schooled entirely in the finest private schools England had to offer. Every word he uttered conveyed barely contained boredom wrapped in the casual confidence of someone who knew he was superior to everyone he wasn’t related to. He was a man who understood the concept of need only in the abstract, and even then only as a tool he could use to control others. He had been blessed not only with limitless wealth but also with rugged good looks, and he held himself like a man well aware of the effect he had on women.

  “This is not a surprise, Abu.” Allie reached across the backseat of the luxury sedan and laid a gentle hand on his. “This is how I show respect to my most valued customers, which I trust you will soon be. In a category all your own, of course.” She nodded toward the trio of SUVs. “Those cars hold my highest-ranking men. I want them to meet you. I want them to know the man who deserves their respect and gratitude.”

  “You needn’t treat me like I’m one of your Russian Neanderthals, Allie. I don’t thump my chest and grunt. I’m a businessman. Interested only in product and service. So long as I can be assured the goods you offer are of the highest quality and that I needn’t be bothered with the details of local laws, I’ll be satisfied. Your men needn’t dust my slippers for me.”

  No, Allie thought. You have staff to do that for you.

  “Perhaps you’ll indulge me, then. As you might imagine, those chest-thumping grunters, as you so aptly described the Russians I’ve inherited, are unaccustomed to taking orders from a woman. If they could see me satisfying someone as powerful as you, they’d know how capable I am.”

  Abu Al Fared tipped his head to the two men in the front seat, then raised an eyebrow to Allie.
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  “Don’t worry about Rick and Johnny.” Allie accented her smile with a seductive stare. “They’re English. They appreciate an opportunity on its merits.”

  “Tha’s right, mate,” Johnny called out from the driver’s seat. “Me and Rick-O ’ere ain’t carin’ one whit ’bout ’oos the boss. Ain’t ’at right, Ricky?”

  The dark-haired man with the pocked face grunted his agreement from the passenger seat.

  “Tha’s the ticket, ain’t it?” Johnny asked. “Man, woman, black, white, Jew, or Papist. They’re all the same to old Rick and me. We’re equal-opportunity employees, we are. You pay us, we do the job. Don’t care ’bout much else.” Johnny looked into the rearview mirror, focusing his attention on Al Fared. “Besides, me and Rick-O ’ere got better stuff to beat than our chests. Ain’t tha’ right, Ricky?”

  Rick stared straight ahead, ignoring his friend’s prattle.

  Abu Al Fared returned his attention to Allie. “I understand your position. I come from a culture that fails to appreciate the full capabilities of a woman. Still, who are we to stand against thousands of years of custom?”

  I don’t care much about who you are, Allie thought. But if custom and culture conspire to keep me from what I want, I’m exactly the person to stand against it. A thousand years of practice be damned.

  “Come with me, Abu.” Slowly Allie traced a circle over the back of his hand. “Let’s have a bit of a game while I show you what I’m capable of providing.”

  Al Fared fixed his chestnut eyes on hers. She saw his craving, watching him as his gaze lowered, tracing the deep neckline of her dove gray silk blouse, then lowering still to linger on the outline of her hips, snugly covered in a silver satin skirt. She’d chosen her outfit to elicit just such a reaction from her prospective client. Allie shifted her position slightly, allowing her knees to part and her breasts to strain against the delicate fabric.

  “You’re a beautiful woman.” His voice was thick with desire. “Perhaps your men are distracted by that.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “A man could think of a woman like you in many positions.”

  “And you, Abu? How do you see me?”

  He leaned forward, his lips close enough that her blond hair shifted in the breeze of his breath. “Don’t ask that again unless you’re ready to deal with my answer.”

  Allie leaned back, a curling tease on her lips. “I’m an American, Abu. You’ve heard of our ethic. Work first, then play. Come. Let me show you what I can do for you.”

  She straightened her spine and sharpened her tone. “Johnny, signal the men. We’re heading in.”

  Johnny flashed the headlights. Doors opened on the three SUVs. Ten men exited, each group standing in front of their own car. Some looked out to the sea, others glanced toward Allie’s Mercedes. All took the opportunity to pull out cigarettes and light up.

  “You ready, then?” Johnny asked.

  “Wait.” Allie’s eyes were trained on the nearest Land Rover. The one with a rear side door still open. Several long seconds later Fyodor Ratchikov emerged. Allie watched him wave toward the men. She could see he was calling out to them, but the distance and the Mercedes’ excellent sound neutralizer prevented her from knowing what he said.

  You passive-aggressive bastard. You’re making me wait for you. Still fighting my control.

  Allie slowly counted to twenty. She offered Abu Al Fared a smile dripping with seductive promise. Then she turned to Johnny.

  “I’m ready.”

  Johnny and Rick exited the sedan and opened the rear doors.

  “Wait!” Abu Al Fared must have heard the fear in his own voice. When he spoke again his tone was lower, his words measured and controlled. “On your assurance I left my men back at the dock. You’re certain of this place?”

  Allie shifted her own voice to maternal reassurance. “I would never put you in danger, Abu.”

  “This is Yemen. These people are warriors. There are bands of extremists everywhere. Oman is a few miles away. It offers a more civilized environment for your demonstration.”

  “Your yacht is anchored in Yemeni waters. Did you have any problems?”

  “No. But the open sea is often more hospitable in this region.” She could hear him struggle to keep anxiety out of his voice. Once again she reached for his hand, this time bringing it up and holding it against her breast.

  “Feel my heart, Abu.” She shifted her blouse to touch his palm to her skin. “Feel its steady beat. I have no fear. Nor should you.”

  Allie watched the skirmish between fight and flight play out on the man’s face. His lips trembled. He opened his mouth. But before Allie could learn whether he’d chosen to stay or run, an explosion of machine-gun fire caused them both to jerk back into their seats. Johnny and Rick slammed the rear doors shut before diving back inside the Mercedes.

  “What the fuck is this, now?” Johnny roared. Before he could reach for the ignition, a jeep roared up beside them. Three men in green army fatigues, each armed with an automatic rifle, leaped from the vehicle, yelling in Arabic. Motioning with their rifles for them to leave the car with their hands raised.

  “This is exactly what I was afraid of,” Al Fared hissed as he climbed out of the backseat. Allie left the car, her hands raised waist high, fingers splayed and palms exposed. She ignored the blathering of her guest and focused on her men. She counted seven jeeps in all. Each held three or four men. Each soldier appeared to be as heavily armed as the three who surrounded her Mercedes. They made short work of corralling Allie’s men into a tight group. At least a dozen soldiers circled around the Russians, rifles at the ready, while three separate pairs of soldiers went man to man. One soldier pointed his automatic rifle at the throat of Allie’s man while his partner frisked and disarmed him. Then the pair would move on to the next man.

  The soldier to her right screamed at them in Arabic.

  “What is he saying?” she asked Al Fared.

  “He’s saying we must join the others.” Al Fared turned to the soldier standing closest to him, speaking in rapid-fire Arabic. Allie was certain her handsome customer was informing the soldier who he was…perhaps even dropping the names of powerful people who would be upset should any harm come to him. The soldier stepped back. Then he looked at his two colleagues, as if searching for direction.

  Five seconds later the three soldiers burst into laughter and used their weapons to point their four hostages toward the rest of the men.

  Allie made her way to Fyodor Ratchikov, squinting against the bright glare of jeep-mounted floodlights trained on the group.

  “Stay calm, Fyodor,” she whispered in Russian.

  “You have murdered us.” Her lieutenant spit on the ground and turned his back.

  “My sons!” Allie raised her voice and addressed her men in their mother tongue. “Protect your queen and she will protect you!”

  A soldier rushed toward her, stopping inches away. He screamed at her in Arabic.

  Allie shook her head and pointed toward her ear, hoping the man would understand. “I do not speak your language,” she said slowly in English.

  Ratchikov whipped around, addressing her in Russian. “Are you insane? If he thinks for one moment he’s captured himself an American, this becomes much more than a simple arrest.”

  As if on cue, the soldier pointed to her and spoke the one word known in any language. “American?” He lifted his head and scanned the entire group. “American?” he called out. “American?”

  Allie’s men riveted their attention on her. But two dozen assault rifles rendered them impotent.

  “Protect your queen!” Allie roared again in Russian. “She will protect you!”

  Another soldier, this one with gold braid on his uniform’s sleeve, trotted toward her. “Are you an American?” he asked. His English was heavily accented, but he seemed to have a full and easy grasp of the grammar. “Why are you speaking Russian?”

  Allie stole a glance toward Ratchikov. Her lieut
enant’s eyes radiated undiluted disgust.

  She turned back to the English-speaking soldier and said nothing.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Who is in charge? Are you their whore?”

  That’s an interesting question, she thought. Their queen or their whore? Is there really a difference?

  She didn’t answer him. Instead she turned to search for Abu Al Fared. She found him. He was circling one particular soldier. Around and around, the fingers of his hands interlocked and resting atop his perfectly coiffed hair, pleading in Arabic with a man clearly ignoring him.

  “Everyone into the warehouse!” The English-speaking soldier was obviously in command. When the Russians didn’t respond, his troops herded everyone forward.

  The lights were on inside the weather-beaten space. Allie herself had dictated how her demonstration was to be staged. There was a long table, draped in purple satin and lit from both ends with floor lamps. On the table were ten kilos of cocaine. There should have been five beautiful women, all European, each immaculately groomed and dressed in chic Parisian evening wear, standing behind it. These were to be her gifts to Abu Al Fared. A taste of what she could offer him and his customers. An entry into his multibillion-dollar Arabic market.

  The drugs were on full display. But the women had scattered, probably at the first burst of the machine guns. Two were in corners. One was behind a long stone table meant for cleaning fish. Allie saw the remaining two behind a decaying wooden boat on the far side of the building. Each woman crouched as low as tight minidresses allowed. Allie was impressed none of them screamed or cried.

  These women are used to difficulty, she thought. Only women accustomed to being used for their beauty by the cruelest of men would agree to be employed in the way I offered.

  The commanding officer walked slowly toward the purple table. He lifted two bricks of cocaine, bringing them to his nose and sniffing.

  “These are drugs,” he called out in English. “Drugs are illegal in Yemen. The laws are very strict.” He set the bricks down and turned to face the group. “These drugs are an abomination!” He let his words hang in the silent warehouse. Allie knew most of her men didn’t understand him.