Saturday 1.02 AM
LA Harbour
I yawned, as I stretched my leg out to avoid a cramp. I’d been sitting on top of the shipping container for two hours.
It hadn’t been too hard to find the container I was looking for; I just tailed the customs officer I knew was on Mitchell’s payroll. I watched him check inside at least a dozen containers, but when he came to this one, he read the serial number, and ticked it off on his clipboard.
He knew what was inside already. And that meant someone would be there to pick it up. Soon.
And then the truck rolled in, followed by two black cars. The cars unloaded first, I counted eight men, all huge. Almost certainly Rock Steady Inc. I was happy to see them. I had a lot of anger to work out.
I’d been fighting Dean Mitchell’s drug empire for months. Every time I took down a dealer, another two sprang up overnight. I ratted out corrupt cops and border guards, they were replaced. Mitchell had me at every turn, and his empire expanded from week to week.
But I had him now. I had no idea what was inside the container, but I knew it was from Indonesia, and I knew the ship it had come in on. If I could cut off his imports, I could stop him dead in his tracks.
A skinny guy got down from the passenger seat of the truck and started ordering the Rock Steady Inc. guys around.
As the thugs approached the container, I overheard them complaining. Apparently Mitchell had proclaimed himself the King of the LA Underworld, and the other crime bosses weren’t taking it too well. Even the head of Rock Steady Inc., a Mr Bianchi, who was closely aligned to Mitchell was starting to sow discord amongst his men. The general consensus seemed to be that Mitchell was getting a little too big for his boots, and that someone should put him back in his place.
Apparently the skinny guy from the truck overheard that part, because he came charging over, shouting about Mr Mitchell paying their salary, and that they had better do what he says or else.
That last part didn’t sit too well with the eight large men, who looked like they were about ready to tear him limb from limb. To his credit, the guy stood firm. He knew they wouldn’t touch him.
And that’s when he said something I had to hear.
“Now, pick up these weapons and put them in the truck. You think Mr Mitchell can protect all his allies at the summit next month without this firepower? You think Bianchi, Savagilio, O’Shaunessey and the others would even turn up to pay tribute to him if he couldn’t protect them?”
A summit of all the crime lords? In LA? I made a mental note to gatecrash that party, but right then, I had another party to crash.
I leapt from the top of the container and drop-kicked the first thug square in the chest. I felt his sternum breaking under my feet before I kicked off, sending him tumbling into the next guy, and buying me precious seconds to flip to my feet and draw my guns.
I opened fire, aiming for the head. I had wasted too much time and too many bullets on Rock Steady Inc. I couldn’t count the times I had unloaded entire clips into their chests, only to have them throw me across the room, or break my arm. It took me a long time to realise that even a shot to the head wouldn’t kill them. They were far too resilient for that. Whatever Bianchi had them taking was powerful.
It wouldn’t kill them, but it would stop them, nine times out of ten the shock of the bullet getting halfway through the skull was enough to concuss them. By the time the first two guys realised what was going on, their friends had joined them on the ground, out cold, and I had several shots left, not that I needed them, a swift kick to the temple kept the first guy down, and the second didn’t have time to react before I clubbed him over both ears at once, rupturing an ear drum and knocking him out.
Mitchell’s crony looked at the fallen guards in horror. I don’t think he’d ever seen anything like it. I had just taken down eight of Mitchell’s prize hired goons in the space of a minute. I looked at him and smiled. He ran for the truck.
I chased him, but I was stopped by a bullet to the shoulder. Too late, I noticed the barrel of a gun sticing out of the driver’s side window of the truck. Before he could squeeze out another shot, I was off and racing, ducking and weaving from side to side, to avoid getting hit again, and despite my running patterns, still catching up with the skinny guy. I reached the truck at the same time he did, tackling him straight into the hard steel step, and knocking him out straight away.
Wasting no momentum, I lifted myself into the air, scrambling up the side of the truck. As I reached the window, I saw the driver fumbling to reload his gun. I smashed his head into the steering wheel twice before he went out. I searched him and found a cell phone. I dialled O’Hara’s number.
As luck would have it, O’Hara was actually still at the station. Something about a serial killer. I told him to round up some trustworthy cops, and gave him the location of the shipping container. Then I told him about the summit, and the names that Mitchell’s guy had dropped. They were all known quantities, crime lords that had been active for years. If we could catch them together, planning something, saying something incriminating, doing anything, they’d be ours.
I told O’Hara to send his guys over soon, as I picked the Rock Steady guys over for ammo and cash. Being a stock boy didn’t pay well enough for me to be buying ammo, and money wasn’t going to do them any good where they were going.