General George Patton had it right. He was going to strut through the valley of the shadow of deathand hed be the meanest motherfucker there. Make them all pay.
Then, and only then, would he willingly let the Reaper take him.
Rowan Chase jerked the wheel in a hard left, brought the car skidding to a stop in a filthy, garbage-strewn alley between two run-down buildings, killed the ignition, and was out before her rookie partner, Daniel Albright, even got his seat belt unbuckled.
One glance at the situation told her things had already gone FUBARfucked up beyond all recognition.
A crowd of about twenty Hispanic men of varying ages surrounded two guys rolling on the ground, the edgy group shouting obscenities, egging the fight on. Quickly, her brain assessed the struggling pair, taking in the information rapid-fire. One stocky male, six feet, about two hundred twenty pounds. The smaller one younger, slender, five-seven, about one sixty. She recognized him as Emilio Herrera. Both wore the East Side Lobos colors. Family fight. Over what? Drugs, a girl, or some imagined slur? Who knew?
Sunlight glinted off a sliver of metal between the combatants, and blood blossomed on the smaller guys shirt. Knife. Shit. Rowan unclipped her holster as she jogged toward them, adrenaline rushing through her veins.
LAPD! she shouted, her pistol clearing leather. Break it the fuck up!
Get back! Give us some room! Danny bellowed.
Danny was green but he was a good officer. She trusted him to control the agitated crowd while she dealt with the fightand trust was imperative. A second unit was on the way, but that didnt mean it would arrive in time to prevent disaster.
The pair were oblivious at first, the younger man completely focused on defending himself against his assailant. The stocky man was clearly the aggressor, his rage palpable. He was the one she needed to reach.
I said break it up! Now!
Switchblade in his meaty fist, straddling the younger man, the stocky one turned his head to glance at her, a snarl on his face. She sucked in a breath, recognizing him. Luis Garcia. She shouldve known. He was a dangerous bastard with a long rap sheet full of violence. Worse, he was unpredictable, his mind fried from a lifetime of drug abuse.
Little puta stole my shit, he slurred, spittle flying.
I didnt! Emilio cried, holding up his hands. I dont do the powder, you know that! La familia knows that!
You took it and Im gonna gut you like a
No, youre not, Rowan ordered, using her most authoritative voice. She held her pistol at her side, pointed at the asphalt.
Put the blade down and come talk to me. Well sort it out.
Shut up, lesbiana . You think you have bigger cojones than Luis, si ? Perhaps you do. He gave a nasty laugh.
Rowan let the insult roll off. Shed been called worse. Emilio is telling the truth, Garcia. I know him and I swear to you he wouldnt take your blow. Now, your car? Hed steal that in a heartbeat, but not your coke. I wouldnt lie to my own people. Put the knife down.
To her right, the Lobos leader pushed through the crowd, apparently late on the scene. Salazar Romero was tall, muscular, and menacing, with long black hair and a soul patch, arms covered with tats. Dont be stupid. Listen to mamacita , Luis. Shes street. One of us, you feel me? Her word is good enough for me, so its good enough for the Lobos.
Finally, a break in the ice. The bigger man visibly wavered, his grip on his quarry loosening. He tried to stare Salazar down, but looked away first, like the dog he was. But that didnt mean the danger was over. Rowans stance remained tense as Garcia let the knife fall from his hand, let go of Emilios shirt.
Climb off him and stand, she directed. Slowly.
Garcia let go a string of muttered curses, but did as he was told. On his feet, he stepped away from the bleeding man and turned toward her, shaking his head. Still cursing. Gesturing and swinging his arms as he became more agitated. She didnt like his body language. The man was going to lose it again.
Kneel, hands behind your head.
His head snapped up. You said we was gonna talk!
First, kneel, hands be
Fuck you, bitch!
Rowan knew what Garcia was going to do, even as he dropped his right arm, reached behind him to grab something at the small of his back. She reacted a split second faster, brought up her weapon and leveled it at his chest, shouting, Drop it!
But he brought the gun around, swung the muzzle toward her, his intent clear. She was hardly aware of her finger pressing the trigger, and the deafening explosion was over before her brain registered the noise.
Garcia jerked backward, eyes widening in surprise. A bloom of scarlet began to spread across his chest as his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground. Weapon still trained on his fallen form, she walked over and kicked the mans gun from his outstretched hand. Wary, she crouched next to his head and placed two fingers on his neck.
Dead? Danny asked.
Yeah. She heaved a shaky breath and stood, surveying the few people that were left.