The Renegades (34 page)

He pushed open the closet door to rows of student desks. Beyond them was a table and a blackboard stand. There was a Mexican flag in a stand in one corner and a Baja California flag in another. Between them was a sliding glass door through which he saw nothing but darkness. Rain on the roof. Through the dripping windows on his left Hood saw only night, and through the ones on his right flickered the lights of the village of Jacume.

The suitcases from Draper’s car—side by side and handles down—stood by the door on the other side of the classroom.

Hood turned off his light and stood still for a moment. He tried to see through the windows but only saw darkness and rain. There was just enough light to pick his way past the rows of desks to the luggage.

The suitcases were heavy. He rolled one onto its back and unzipped it. He turned on the light again and saw newspapers and rocks the size of softballs inside the bag. No cash. The other was packed with the same thing. The papers were the
Los Angeles Times
and
San Diego Union-Tribune
, recent dates. The rocks were the ones you’d find all over the vast borderlands between California and Mexico. He turned off the light again and squatted on his haunches beside the suitcases.

Hood realized that Draper had seen the transponder way back in Orange County. Some quick thinking and a call to Israel Castro was all it had taken to turn his luck. Hood figured the money was now headed back to Tijuana from Jacumba in the black Durango, driven by Castro. They’d made the luggage switch in Israel Castro’s garage. Draper had drawn him into the labyrinth of Jacumba, then lost him like a fox playing a hound. Hood saw that the man with the gun was supposed to deliver him to Draper, or a shallow grave in a big desert. The cost of the huge error began to settle on him.

An engine started outside and headlights suddenly splashed against a window. He saw the big SUV, tucked back in the darkness until now, lumbering toward the classroom through the rain. Then two more sets of headlights blazed to life from the darkness on the other side of the building, and the vehicles converged through the night.

Hood scrambled back to the closet and flung open the hatch and started down the ladder. But even before he reached the bottom he heard the footsteps pounding through the tunnel toward him, closing fast. He reached out and yanked the electrical line from the tunnel frame. The line slapped down and fixtures sparked and the circuit shorted and there was nothing but blackness and the cursing of men less than a hundred feet away.

He struggled out and let the plywood drop into place and closed the closet door. He stood in the classroom and surveyed his few options. The only door was at the front of the room and Hood was at the back. Through the windows on his right he saw the dark SUV hunker to a stop and the doors fly open. To his left, the two other vehicles slid to a stop.

Hood saw his chance. He pulled the heavy oilcloth hat down hard, holstered his gun and zipped the canvas jacket to his chin. Then he jammed his fists deep down into the pockets and ran toward the slider. He tried to think of a prayer but couldn’t.

Outside someone racked a shotgun. The front door shuddered from a kick. Hood hunched his shoulders and launched himself headfirst through the glass.

It was cheap and thin, and Hood broke through with a shower of shards. He slipped and faltered but stayed up, then took off running for the darkness where he could not be seen. He fell down a steep embankment and rolled, hitting rocks and branches, then sprawled into a bed of rusted cans and bottles and litter at the bottom of the barranca. He was breathing hard as he pulled a long triangle of window glass from his cheek. Then he was upright and climbing the bank on the other side. He heard voices behind him and he saw men and the shapes of men in the headlights of an SUV barreling in his direction.

Hood topped the ridge, then jumped down and cut toward Jacume. There was a narrow pathway to follow—a game trail, or maybe a motorcycle path through the dense brush. But almost instantly he heard the rumble of the SUV close behind him and he saw the headlights strafe the ground ahead. He scrambled down into another barranca leading into further darkness. He was no longer sure what country he was in. The flashlight beams crisscrossed around him like the strands of a spider’s web. He clawed up a hill.

The first gunshot cracked and the bullet hit the ground in front of him. Then another. The SUV groaned closer through the brush and the flashlight beams closed in.

The gunfire came fast and brief, as in the alleys of Anbar, and a bullet hit him down low on the side of his back. It felt like he’d been kicked by a horse. He fell forward and got to his knees in the mud. It didn’t hurt but he felt a terrible, terrible disappointment. He drew his gun and turned and fired off three shots at the vehicle windshield. The glass shattered and dropped like a blanket of diamonds. The SUV veered wildly and flipped.

Hood stood and ran but he could gain no speed. His heavy canvas jacket was soaked by rain, and his oilcloth hat seemed to weigh thirty pounds, and his side suddenly felt like a red-hot poker had gone through it. His hand came away from it black with blood. He was short of breath and suddenly, extremely tired.

He made it up a hill to an outcropping of rocks. He crawled into them and found good cover and a place to brace his gun. He thought of the hundreds of Westerns he’d seen and the hundreds of boulders that men had died behind. He thought about not making thirty years old. And he thought this was a rough place we live in, where a bunch of bad guys could run down one decent cop and murder him right under God’s nose. It wasn’t even personal.

He looked out at the flashlights flickering toward him, then at the SUV, overturned on a hillside with the headlights still on and its wheels still turning. The men converged with short, purposeful steps. Hood could see mist in the light beams. He knew they didn’t know exactly where he was, only that he was close and armed. He was irrationally happy that they didn’t have dogs. He steadied the handle of the .45 on the rough boulder and waited for someone to come into range. He thought of Ariel Reed, and Allison Murrieta, his mom and dad, his brothers and sisters. With awful surprise, he realized that his life had been short.

Then the world in front of him went white. The men froze in a bright blizzard and their flashlight beams vanished, and the SUV was blanched by snow. A wind came up behind Hood and he thought, Oh, so this is how it happens: the light comes and brings the wind, and the wind lifts you out of your body and you become the wind, rising up through the rain and into the kingdom of air and sky.

Hood realized another thing: there’s this tremendous roar. It comes suddenly and it’s really loud, then it gets even louder. It’s rhythmic and monstrous and powerful. Your enemies scatter.

And then the roar lowers from the sky and pivots to the ground on runners. It’s an official machine, God’s own, an emblem on the side, spilling out angels with guns.

So you push yourself up and stumble or roll or crawl or all three down the hill to greet them.

39

He spent three days
at a hospital in San Diego. He ate a lot of food and took a lot of blood. Warren showed up the first day and debriefed him for his warrant request. He recorded the interview and took notes, and left immediately.

Ariel visited, looking concerned and beautiful. She had won her case. Two weeks until sentencing. In a separate matter, the district attorney himself was deciding the fate of Shay Eichrodt. Ariel told Hood she had recommended that the charges against him be dropped. She’d also had the blower on her dragster reworked, and bought a new set of slicks. She couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel again.

Marlon shuffled in, told Hood that he looked like a dweeb and to hurry up and get out of this place. He told Hood to call for backup next time, rather than being an idiot. He also said that Laurel Laws had been calling LASD, to speak to Hood—something about a dog. Hood called her right after Marlon left, and sure enough, Londell Dwayne’s dog had returned to their home three weeks after disappearing into the hills. Laurel wanted Hood to come get her, and deliver her back to Londell.

Warren showed up again the hour before Hood was discharged, and told him that he’d be riding home with him.

When they started out on Highway 163 the day was clear and cool and the jets zoomed low in and out of Miramar. Hood had a gauze pad taped to his side to drain the gunshot wound—a jagged, unstitched, wildly painful hole from back to front. The flesh around it was black that faded to purple then blue. Hood had three stitches in his right cheek from the glass. He had a plastic hospital bag with more gauze and tape in it, and Betadine, a large bottle of antibiotics and a small one of Vicodin. Warren said that he was a poster cop for lucky.

“The judge issued,” he said. “We’ve got an arrest warrant for Coleman Draper, on suspicion of transporting cash from the sale of narcotics to Mexico.”

“But let me guess. You can’t find him.”

“We staked out his home and business in Venice. He hasn’t shown in three days.”

Hood thought of the Laguna and the Azusa properties that Draper owned, and of Juliet Brown and Alexia Rivas. “I’ve got some ideas where he might be.”

“The next time your ideas are dangerous, Hood, wait for backup.”

“I thought it was then or never.”

“Bullshit. That was a Renegades thing to do. Trust me, Hood—life is much better when you’re alive.”

“I can’t argue that.”

“I’m teaming you up with Stekol. You two have one assignment—bring in Draper.”

Hood knew that Brian Stekol was the bald black man in the sharp suit who was driving Warren’s car the night Terry Laws had died. And that Stekol was a distinguished marksman on the LASD shooting team, and a black belt in judo.

“Whose whirlybird came to my rescue, Lieutenant?”

“A joint task force.”

“Which one?”

“Nobody will say because they poached on Mexican soil in order to salvage you.”

“Why do that for me?”

“They thought you were an Arellano Cartel captain, being chased down by Herredia’s bad guys. The task force had heard about a hot new tunnel—probably the one you found. If they’d have known who you really were, this would be a Mexican morgue and you’d be dead.”

Hood thought about this unsettling truth as they headed north for L.A.

Warren said that the joint task force had made no arrests the night of Charlie’s shooting, and had not questioned a single suspect. Not Draper, not Castro, not anyone. They had all scattered into the boulders and barrancas and tunnels on the Mexican side—the forbidden zone. The overturned SUV had Mexican plates and had been stolen off a street in La Jolla two years ago.

Warren’s real news was that Londell Dwayne had been released on bail the day before. His alibi with Patrice at the Palmdale motel had checked out and the murder rap for Terry Laws had been dropped. He was still up for the Mace and the machine gun and unlawful sex with a minor, but he’d come up with enough cash for the bond.

Hood dozed in the sun coming through the window. His pants got wet and he dug into his bag of tricks and changed the bandage. He had a brief glimpse of old age. It seemed better than the alternative. It was painful when he reached behind him to press the new dressing against his skin. A bullet hole is an ugly thing.

“I want that son of a bitch,” he said. “Draper.”

“If we share with the DEA they’ll nail his ass at the border if he tries it again.”

“No.
I
want him. For us.”

“That’s interagency rivalry, Hood. It’s selfish and counterproductive.”

“I know what it is. But the Feds don’t care about Eichrodt and Vasquez and Lopes.”

“I want him for us, too,” said Warren.

“Damn, this thing hurts.”

“Get some rest. Take a few days off.”

HOOD GOT UP early and drove around the city. The late winter light was beautiful in Silver Lake, and the Sunset Strip seemed docile in the early morning, and even the dark corridors of downtown had a wholeness he had never seen. He had breakfast, then drove up to Terry Laws’s ranch.

Delilah was a brindle pit bull, a former warrior by the look of her. She greeted Hood with a placid stare from the kitchen floor, where she lay beside Terry’s dog, Blanco.

“At first they wanted to kill each other, then they sniffed around and got friendly,” said Laurel. “Now I can’t keep them apart. Dogs need dogs.”

Hood held out one hand and the dogs came over and he bribed them with treats from a pet store. He bribed them more. He slipped a light nylon lead over Delilah’s head and wasn’t surprised that she barreled along beside him to the Camaro.

“Thanks for taking care of this,” said Laurel. “Terry loved dogs.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You going to be okay? Marlon told me.”

“Healing up already.”

She shook her head. “You guys don’t get paid enough. I mean that with all respect.”

“Then I take it that way.”

With Delilah on the passenger seat beside him, Hood headed north for Lancaster. Gradually the green of L.A. flattened into desert, and Hood saw the yuccas and sage, and the poppies beginning to bloom on the shoulders of the highway. He saw the subdivisions, some populated and some still being built, stretching for miles across the beautiful, affordable desert. He drove past the substation and the park. He realized he wanted to see all the things that he would miss if he had died back in Mexico.

Londell met him in the Subway parking lot. Hood got out of his car and brought Delilah but he had to let go of the leash when she spotted Londell. Londell ran toward her and swept her right off her feet. Hood had the thought that Londell ran differently from the shooter who had killed Terry. Londell looked like the shooter, but he didn’t move like him.

“Thanks.”

“Glad I could help.”

Londell kissed the dog on the nose and swung her around like a dance partner, then set her down. “I didn’t kill that muscleman.”