‘Or show respect.’
Wood tossed the brick of dollar bills at his feet. ‘Buy somethin’ nice.’ Like soap or a detox. The street leader crouched for retrieval, eyes gimbaled and levelling with the Special Agent’s.
‘You give it up too easy.’
‘I can spare it.’
‘Can you spare a tongue, your balls, an eye, your woman?’
‘As easy as you can six neat fuckin’ holes in your abdomen.’
An arm flung out sideways, ordering the gang to hold fire. Mary was already holding her breath. Tactical discipline was in shorter supply than ammunition. ‘Sounds to me like a declaration of war, fucka.’
‘Sounded to me like a statement of fact.’
‘That so?’ Circling, crowding.
The FBI man had tapped into tranquillity, was immune to threat. ‘Let me show you somethin’.’ Weapons cocked, readiness to fire loud on the ear, the senses. He reached behind, clearing aside the boxes and loose packaging, and tugged the cover from Krista. Better she had a fighting chance, a shooting chance, than lying blind in a winding-sheet. Besides, it was one more gun, a shortening of the odds. ‘Pussy, man, I’m not givin’ up for nobody.’
‘White pussy ‘an all.’
Krista shielded her eyes, back-wiped the sweat, clicked the safety on the Kimber automatic. Hidden preparations. Returning to the dark, to a state of unawareness, had its attractions. Eighth rule of combat: try to look unimportant, they might be low on ammo. Ninth: teamwork is essential – it gives the enemy someone else to shoot at. Tenth: anything can get you shot – including doing nothing. Counting upwards. Josh had taught her some useful things. She played dumb, stayed frightened.
‘I’ve got plans.’ Wood kept it easy, even.
‘But you ain’t paid no duty on her.’
‘This do?’ The Uzi’s snub barrel had materialized from the open window. ‘Tell everyone to drop their hardware.’ He fired, rapid shots above the man’s head, direct into his survival instinct. The muzzle lowered. ‘Non-negotiable. Do it, or I forget to miss.’
Capitulation was swift, the arsenal dumped, the group assembled and forced on their bellies. The odour of incinerated meat clung, biting. Wood powered up. Departure readied. Sullen defeat could switch to attack in a narco-second. That was ghetto alchemy for you.
‘Consider yourself deputized,’ Krista whispered, giving Mary cover while the black girl stowed a combat shotgun.
The maid smiled shyly. ‘Jus’ doin’ what’s right.’
‘When you’re ready …’ Final head-count, a warning display of marksmanship, and the Jeep chased off beyond the speed limit. Progress, victory. Krista re-submerged beneath the cover. Not long now. In the far diminishing background, the bonfire remained lit.
‘FBI … FBI …’
It came in the shriek of a loud-hailer, the fluid aggression of a raid. A showcase of speed, precision, timing, of dark Land Cruisers, ground-smoke, of humans sprinting. ‘Go, go, go …’ No such thing as over-kill in the adrenalin-soaked locker room of Special Weapons and Tactics. Wood braked, content to ride the storm, appreciate the welcome. Inrush of action, break-out of squads in black fatigues and ski-masks. Everything ticked off, all angles covered. They wore the overalls, the lettering, carried the carbines and confidence of shock troops.
Wood waved his ID. ‘Aren’t you guys a little premature?’
‘That’s between me and my wife, sir.’ Tension fragmented on the levity. ‘But our orders were to intercept.’
‘And we’re grateful.’ He climbed out slowly. ‘What was wrong with Albarado Street?’
‘Had to pull back our forward ops. Risk of being cut off. Hispanics have joined forces with the rest.’
‘We weren’t told.’
‘Fog of war, s’ppose. It’s why we had to take the initiative.’
‘So, where’re we heading?’
‘Leave it to us, Mr Wood. We know bandit country, every single defilade.’
‘Then you’ll also appreciate Azania’s got guided artillery and a lot of units on manoeuvre.’
Krista sat up, was beckoned out. Hidden faces appraised her, put the paramilitary into anonymity. Trick or treat. She felt a leap of childlike uncertainty, childhood unease. Halloween was early. At least these guys were professional, had fought through when retreat was on the lips, radio and agenda of every police officer within a ten-mile radius. She should be pleased.
‘You all right, Miss Althouse?’
‘Bit dazed. Bit surprised.’
‘Then, this won’t help. Step forward, hands out to your side. No protest.’ Assault weapons swung. ‘Do it, do it fast.’
‘Not without these two.’
‘I insist.’ The pistol was unholstered from its thigh position. Heckler & Koch Mk 23, a favourite with US Special Operations Command. Effective, powerful.
Wood’s voice was low. ‘We’ll be okay, Krista. Just go.’
‘You heard the man.’ The pistol was grasped, held downwards. ‘He’s onto something.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘The next five seconds.’ The sidearm began to rise, the butt cupped and steady.
