Thursday, 10.23PM
Eastside, Long Beach
I could feel the guy’s collarbone cracking, as I thrust my palm directly into his chest. He let out a cry as I followed it up with a chop across the back of his neck, rendering him unconscious.
I bound his hands together with some cable ties I’d found behind the restaurant, didn’t want him to be a problem if he woke up.
I dragged him back towards the red El Camino his accomplice had arrived in, and tossed him in the back. His accomplice stirred a little when he landed on top of him, but he didn’t wake up. Good, I wasn’t ready for it yet.
I headed back to my latest victim’s car, a black Ford of some description, and pop the trunk.
Jackpot. Two big bags of what I can only assume was cocaine. At least twenty pounds each. There was no way he got these past customs without someone on the inside.
I close the trunk, and head back to the El Camino. I was lucky to have this lead. A dealer had spilled last week that this was where the drug mules met the distributors. The drugs came up from Mexico, reached this restaurant car park, where the mules dropped them off, got their cash, and went home. That was all the guy was willing to tell me, he said he only knew because he was the mule some weeks. I dropped him off outside a police station, not sure what happened after that, but I couldn’t have him telling anyone he snitched.
He also told me about the guy in the El Camino, which made my job a lot easier. I got the drop on him pretty quickly, just calmly reached into his car, pulled him out, and shut the door on his head a few times. I tied him up and tossed him in the back. It was dark enough that nobody would see him laying there.
But I needed him awake, so I started slapping him. He came to pretty quickly, but he was already stirring, so that wasn’t surprising. He tried to cry out, but a stiff backhand put a stop to that.
It didn’t take long for him to spill, he told me that his boss had paid off one of the customs guards, one Greg Atkins. He also told me the address of the place he took the drugs, over in West Torrance, and also where the mules obtained them. All in all, it was a productive night.
And it wasn’t over yet. Somehow I’d missed the sound of the approaching car. I was too busy listening to what the guy had to say. It wasn’t until the lights flashed that I noticed the black Chrysler pulling up behind me.
I was on my feet, with my guns out, pointed at the driver’s seat within seconds. The door opened slowly, the driver had his hands up, they were empty. He stood up, and it became clear to me that it was Officer O’Hara.
He told me that he’d been promoted to Detective, and that he’d been tracking these guys for weeks. I told him what they’d told me, the name of the customs guy, the source of the drugs, and where they were going. He thanked me, before handing me a business card. In case I needed to contact him, for anything. I thanked him, and told him to give me a head start before he called in guys to the place in West Torrance. He told me he wouldn’t get a warrant for days anyway, and to be careful. Like I need to be careful.
Thursday, 11.51 PM
West Torrance
I scoped out the house. No lights on inside, but that didn’t mean a thing. There was still movement in the windows. They must be have been getting edgy by then. Their delivery hadn’t arrived.
I counted at least five guys inside; it was hard to tell with all the shadows. Maybe more. I ducked behind a neighbour’s fence and used it to hide my approach. I reached the backyard and climbed over, landing softly on the ground. No movement inside, they didn’t see me. Good. Makes my job a lot easier.
I crouched low and ran towards the house, using the darkness to my advantage.
I stopped dead when I saw the porch light. Motion sensor mounted. Lucky for me, it was a cheap one with a short range. Unlucky for me, it was at that point that the guards decided it was time for a cigarette break and stepped out onto the back porch, triggering the light.
I stared at the two big men, and they stared right back in disbelief. They dropped their cigarettes, and I stood up, no point crouching now. We stared at each other in silence for a few seconds longer, before one of the guards shouted.
The two on the porch charged me straight away, I managed to duck under the first one, but the second caught me with a wild blow. I actually felt my cheekbone crack, and my teeth loosen.
Dazed momentarily by the blow, I was a sitting duck, as the first guy lifted me up over his head and tossed me all the way to the house, at least ten yards away. It was around that time that I decided these weren’t ordinary guards. They had to be Rock Steady Inc., otherwise there was no way they could do that much damage, or throw me that far. That was a game-changer.
I pulled my guns and opened fire, unloading a full magazine into each of the men’s abdomens, but they just laughed. I heard something behind me, and just managed to commando-roll to the side, as two more Rock Steady guys stepped onto the porch and opened fire at me. The bullets rained down, from an automatic of some kind, I hazarded a look over my shoulder and saw they both held submachine guns, probably Uzis, but I couldn’t tell from there.
I ducked around the side of the house, changing out my magazines, before crouching behind an air-conditioning unit. As I waited for my adversaries to come around the corner, I began formulating a plan.
The first appeared in plain sight, and I sprang into action. A little fancy shooting and I had hit him in a weak point, his ankles. Still, it took two shots to each ankle to drop him, and now I didn’t have a clear shot at whoever followed him. The second guy got what was left in my guns, and as luck would have it, he was one of the guys I had already shot. The combined blood loss was enough to drop him too.
I only had a few seconds; I darted forward and snatched up both of the fallen men’s guns. I charged around the corner and opened fire on their buddies, who were on their way over to deal with me. But they had brought friends. Turns out I had misjudged the number of people inside, because there were six guys all pointing their guns at me.
I charged across the yard, unloading a clip into the nearest Rock Steady guy, and followed it up with a clip to the guy next to him. They both dropped. I dove for them, somersaulted between them as I grabbed their guns, and dropped the next two, as I took a shot in my leg and another in my shoulder.
I dropped the Uzis and charged forward to meet the next thug. I leaped at him, taking him high in the chest. He staggered back from the shock of the attack, and tripped up the porch step. I rolled through, as my shoulder knitted itself back together, and kipped up to my feet. A few well placed boots to the temple, and it was down to me and the final guard.
Unluckily for me, he had a clear shot, and I now have a clear knowledge of exactly what it feels like to take eight shots to the chest and abdomen.
Friday, 5.12 AM
I came to inside the house. Inside what appeared to be a garbage bag. Because I love waking up in the trash.
I overheard two guys yelling about the missing shipment, about how I must have had something to do with it. Apparently I was a big problem for them, a guy on the next block had called the cops, who had started patrolling the streets and asking questions. The houses on either side were apparently abandoned, and the owners of the house behind were on vacation, so there were no witnesses.
One of the voices, the guy who hired the guards from the sound of it, kept worrying about what Mr Mitchell was going to do to him. The entire operation was in jeopardy, and as soon as Mr Mitchell found out, he was going to be dead. The other voice, the one remaining guard, I assumed, told him that little Deano was the least of his worries, if his boss came after him, for getting seven of his men put in hospital, then he would be worse than dead.
It was at that point that I put two-and-two together. Mr Mitchell. Little Deano. Dean Mitchell. Youngest son of Franklin Mitchell, the billionaire developer. That was who was in charge of the drug trade in this city. That was who was to blame.
I had to make a break for it, and I did, bursting free of the garbage bag and charging through the nearest window into the night, leaving my captors agape.
I sprinted into the night, my body racked with pain as it continued to heal the bullet wounds. I just kept running, and running. I had to get away.
I had to take Dean Mitchell down. Finally I had a name and a face to put on my crusade, and there was nothing I wouldn’t do to punish him for what he’s done.
leave a reply