Disclaimer: While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.
SPOILERS/Timeline: Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'
UNDYING GRATITUDE: To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.
The part of his brain not tracking gunfire and figuring out ways to cover his ass is composing the verbal and written reprimands that are absolutely without fucking QUESTION to come.
From his spot inside the doorway of a shop selling piñatas and assorted party supplies, partially shielded by a parked car and a row of newspaper boxes, Capt. Jim Brass sees Stokes and Brown come out a blind alley half a block down and walk into the middle of the firefight.
"Son of a bitch!"
He's really just trying to get an idea of all the players, the range of arsenal in use, the nests of origin, and the safest place to be because – GOD DAMN IT and MOTHERFUCKER – there's no siren noise yet, no back-up, and he's in this alone. Him and Nick and Warrick, and too many innocent bystanders hunkered on sidewalks and inside little stores.
He tries his damnedest not to give in to the voice in his head that's trying to remind him of Bell and Curtis and a scene like this, just months ago. The flashes of cold stares and stony silences from IAB and uniforms that tell him he's a second-rate cop. And that maybe responders are taking their time because, hell, who cares about helping out a Jersey boy who can't shoot straight around one of their own?
Up and to his left, a series of bullets penetrate the glass of the storefront. The window comes down in a shower of diamonds, ripping apart tissue and papier-mâché effigies of cartoon characters Brass doesn't recognize. He stills long enough to innocently mourn the absence of a candy pay-off, and then he's twisting around the ruined corner of the shop, firing off what's left in his magazine before he drops and pops it – hot against his fingers – and slams a new one home.
He spies through the empty window frame, trying to locate Nick and Warrick. There are enough tats and white tee-shirts, long Dickie shorts, and Nike Cortez to prove this is some kind of gang dispute. The tricked out Escalade with the spinning rims (which alone probably cost more than he takes home in a month) starts to make a slow get away from the curb and once it's gone, Jim is privy to the sight of his two CSIs making an erratic run across the street, ducking gunfire all the way.
"Jesus Christ."
He grabs his walkie and screams again for the help that's long overdue:
"Dispatch, this is Bravo Robert Alpha 179. Code 443, 1300 block of Puesta del Sol. You copy? Multiple shots fired! I need back-up and medical personnel. Multiple civilians hit!"
"Copy, Bravo Robert Alpha 179. You have three units en route."
A line of bullets pings its way across the metal newspaper boxes crowded in front of the piñata store, and Jim meets the sidewalk quicker than he's moved in a while. He's not hit, he knows, but he's pretty sure he feels the whiz of one or more bullets enter his air space. The front of one news box explodes apart, newsprint confetti flying, quarters spilling out like an urban slot paying a jackpot.
"Dispatch, you got an ETA on those units?"
"ETA is three minutes."
"Not soon enough," the detective mumbles under his breath and swings around the corner once more, a line of lead making for any of the bad guys.
Outside, the storm of bullets is as fierce as the rain of adrenaline coursing through the two CSIs and the innocent civilians they're trying desperately to protect.
"How bad is she?" Warrick asks. He scoots across the floor of the mercado toward Nick and the injured woman, wrangling the screaming child like a crocodile.
The boy, frightened and frantic, kicks and claws and squirms until he's crawling into the safety of his mother's lap.
"Seño, esta bien. Esta bien," Nick assures her, stripping off his contaminated gloves, trying to get a look at the wound in her shoulder.
"You got it wrong, ese. It's not okay at all."
Both CSIs turn toward the voice. The voice and the gun aimed in their general direction.
Warrick barely has time to twitch when the heavily tattooed man drops a bead on him.
"I don't think you're that fast, cop." His gun, but not his eyes, travels to Nick and then to the woman and her softly sobbing son. "I'ma get one of them before you get me. Slide it over."
Warrick curses under his breath, darts a look at Nick, and slides his service weapon across the worn cement floor to the punk.
Tattoo stops the pin-wheeling gun with a sneakered foot, then thrusts his chin at Nick. "You too, weto."
Nick's face pinches for a second. "Hey, man, listen—"
"No, you listen. Slide me your fucking Glock, bro. Or I'ma cap that puta and then her little guacho."
Nick can't completely hide the sneer of disgust; his upper lip quivers and his eyes narrow as he reaches behind him and brings out his gun, butt dangling between his index finger and thumb. "Look, man, we're not cops. We're—"
"Shut the fuck up, man!" Tattoo yells, and his burst of anger is punctuated by a burst of gunfire outside. "Slide that gat over here now, or you ain't gonna be anything in a second."
The corners of Nick's mouth blush and rise, quickly falling with a blast of air from his nose. He gently lays his service weapon on the floor of the mercado and then thrusts it roughly toward the assailant.
Warrick flicks green, angry eyes at him, warning caution.
The bullets are still flying in the street outside, but underneath, all of them hear the keen of sirens. They're far off, but sounding louder every tense second.
The man with all the guns is thick but hard muscled under the weight of his fifteen or so extra pounds. Almost every inch of exposed flesh is covered by portraits and glyphs, letters and numbers in broad Olde English font. The black ink stands out clearly and cleanly against the young man's caramel skin. The tattoos peek from the neck of his bright white t-shirt, climbing up over his cheeks and shaved skull. The artful calligraphy vines down both arms, across the tops of both hands.
Neither CSI misses the steel assuredness, total absence of tremor, in the hand holding the gun.
Nick may have been close to losing his cool a few seconds ago, but when the gang banger starts barking orders in Spanish, he's careful to make sure his uni-lingual partner understand as much as possible.
"Hey, tú ven pa' acá. Y el bitcho también. ¡Rápido!"
"Hey, man. Come on. She's hurt. What do you need her for?"
"You got a mouth on you, pan blanco. Somebody oughtta teach you a lesson on keepin' it shut."
There's a shout from the back of the store, the crash of a glass jar, and two more inked assailants rush in. They're both armed, pushing in front of them a frightened older man who's crying lightly and muttering in Spanish.
The larger of the two new bangers on the scene has the terrified man by the collar, gun pressed against the back of his neck. "Abuelo was delivering fruit. His truck's out back, man. Let's go, uh?"
It takes a bit for all three punks to get on the same page, for them to get their heads around what the other of them has done. Takes a few precious seconds for their brains to bustle over the hail of bullets outside, the plaintive wail of the police sirens, and see the three of them are stuck in that proverbial middle ground between rock and really fucking hard place.
The stutter in the continuum is long enough for Nick to do a couple of things: there's a flash of communication between himself and his partner - I need your trust - and when that's confirmed with a well-delivered blink, Nick's eyes set to work around the little grocery store.
He's looking for anything that might help even the playing field. If he can create a diversion – hell - just get any of the assailants talking calmly for a second - they have a better chance. Help is on the way, he can hear it getting closer with every breath. Barring rescue, though, he's searching for possible weapons. And he spies one almost immediately.
The mercado may be tiny, but it's full service; meat counter in the back, dried and canned goods, personal items, even shiny silver tamale pots lining the top row of shelves against the far wall. And up front, not three feet from him, is a well stocked little produce section. Melons, mangos, oranges, and a whole branch of bananas lying atop a stand all by itself. Along side it, a machete. Nick briefly imagines the grocer using the deceptively dull-looking knife to hack off a bunch of bananas for a customer.
"Jeff, man! Salgamos de acá. ¡Vámanos! Let's go!" says the antsy, gun-toting newcomer.
The tattooed original gangster never takes his eyes or his aim off the still bleeding woman and her young son. "You got wheels?"
The sirens are close, maybe ten or twelve blocks off, and Nick tries for the path of rationality. "You should take off, man. Before the cops swarm in. You didn't do anything and—"
"Shut up! Fuck! Why do you keep talking, cop?"
It's clear who's Moe amongst these three stooges. "Get up," Jeff says to Nick, motioning roughly with the gun.
"Jeff, man. What the fuck you doing?" says the other banger, tugging on the fruit truck man's collar.
Nick pushes himself up to a squat, raises his hands in calm surrender. His eyes dart quickly to the machete.
The woman moans and grabs at Nick's shirt sleeve. "No se vaya, por favor. Por favor, no me deje sola."
"Todo va a salir bien," he assures the terrified mother, peeling her fingers gently from his arm. "It'll be okay, ma'am."
Jeff shoots a look at Warrick, but the gun stays on Nick. "You, too, champiñon. Arriba."
Warrick looks to him for a translation of what he knows was some jibe, but Nick just smirks and shakes his head lightly: Let it go. Just play along, boss.
"Let's go, cop!"
Warrick imitates Nick's slow rise, hands lifted loosely in front of him.
More sirens wail in the distance.
"Jeff, man! Let's go!"
Jeff's head swivels quickly to his anxious counterpart. "¡Por la puta, cállate, pelon!"
It's the best chance Nick has; he takes a step – one tiny step – to his right and reaches for the machete.
Jim's Sig is hot, the grip held bruisingly tight in his hand as sweat slickens his palms. He knows this for what it is. They used to call it Jersey Justice back home, a million years ago. They'll show with excuses about missed calls, crossed signals. They'll blame it on traffic, dispatch; hell, he'd heard of cops claiming sudden bouts of explosive diarrhea. No shame when you know it's made up and everyone else knows, too.
Another bullet whines past his ear and strikes the stucco behind him. His face is already sliced into a myriad of cuts from the metal shrapnel of his de facto shield.
Blood mixes with sweat, the salty copper fluid stinging his eyes, blurring the street into watercolors.
The sirens are coming in from the east. Another set, further away, to the north. He's not the only one who can hear them.
The flurry of bullets slows as each ear picks up the sound, recognizes it as multiple car response. Doors slam shut as a few duck into the buildings. Shouts in Spanglish, mixed pack calls to fellow members and taunting threats as feet beat retreat up the block.
There. Two tattooed and wife beater-clad thugs make a break for a tricked-out, chopped and dropped Chevy, popping off shots wildly behind them. The one is tall and wiry; a shaved-head scarecrow. As he throws himself through the driver's side door of the Impala, Jim catches the flash of royal blue and white stripes on the back of his right calf; the Salvadoran flag emblazoned in ink.
The other banger's smaller and just as thin. He pauses to hitch up his baggy jeans and Jim draws a bead on him as he sprints for the Chevy. A last second hesitation Jim curses for what he knows causes it, and the bullet lands in the meaty part of Baggy's barely denim-clad ass.
The banger's hand drops the gun and grabs at the offended part as he stumbles, clawing for the door of the Impala, but his buddy revs up the engine and leaves him in a cloud of dust.
The first of the cruisers rounds the corner and Jim pops up from behind the box, badge out in his left hand held high, waving his gun in clear direction- follow the SUV. Shotgun officer in the cruiser nods once and the car's V8 growls as they take off in pursuit, more patrol cars filling in the end of the block. They pull into formation, barricading off the street at one end, all units shutting the sirens off practically in unison.
Car doors fly open, unis dropping to their knees in their shelter, shotguns perched, eyes scanning frantically for targets.
About five things happen in the split second after Nick makes his move: tires squeal and cop voices ring out, the gunfire erupts again, the woman screams and so does her son, Jeff turns toward Nick. And then the butt of the gangster's Glock is crashing across Nick's cheekbone, the machete clanging to the cement floor of the store.
Rising slowly from his hands and knees, Nick sees Warrick surge forward until he's stopped by the barrel of a gun against his neck; the third Inked Wonder. Nick's vision is popping from bright to brighter, blur to brilliance, but he's distinctly aware of the very, VERY angry man holding a gun just inches from his face.
More shouts from the street, in Spanish and English both, and then bullets are flying freely again.
Nick's right hand cautiously skims his face. His upper lip's split just left of center, his nose is bleeding at a pretty steady flow from one nostril, and the top of his left cheek is hatching one hell of a goose egg; skin already tight and smooth with swell.
"You must be loco if you think I won't kill you right here, cop," Jeff hisses at Nick, lips curling back to show one silver central incisor.
"Come on, Jefe. He's a cop, man," pleads the banger with his hand fisted tightly on the elderly truck driver's shirt collar.
The wail of more sirens and gunfire bleeds into the tiny shop from the street. Nick absently wipes blood from his mouth and nose with the back of his hand.
"'S why they're comin' with us. Conejo," Jeff calls to the wiry gangster with the gat at Warrick's neck.
"Yo."
"¿Tu tienes al negro?"
"Got 'im."
Jeff slowly tracks the nose of the gun to the wounded woman and her small son. "La boca de las ratas es lo ultimo que se quema en el infierno. You hear me, puta? You never seen us." He calls over his shoulder, "¡Viejo¿Oíste?"
"Sí, sí," whimpers the old man. He's shoved forward by his captor and stumbles past Nick, falling to his knees. He skitters next to the young mother and child.
Jeff's free hand strikes forward and roughly grabs Nick's shirtfront. The banger pulls him close and rams the cold barrel of the gun against his forehead. "You try anything again, weto, and my friend's gonna put a bullet in your friend's neck. ¿Comprende?"
Nick sees Warrick's lips twitch in frustration, and he knows it's not because his partner's worried about the punk on his back, but because Nick can't disguise his dizzy swaying, and really doesn't need the extra thunk from the gun to his head.
"You understand me, cop?" Jeff asks again, retracting the gun an inch and then once more jamming it brutally against Nick's skull.
"Yeah. I got it," grinds Nick.
Jeff slides around Nick's side, tattooed arm releasing the fistful of henley and rising to ring the CSI's neck. "Salgamos de acá, vaqueros."
They're prodded and dragged toward the back entrance of the shop. Nick knows their chance of survival has just dropped, will drop again EXPONENTIALLY if they leave the scene. He does his best to brush against the shelving he's dragged past, leaving physical evidence for the team. While he doesn't want to raise alarm among his friends and colleagues, he knows the blood will eventually be identified as his, and that may give him and Warrick a tiny edge.
When they pass the register, Nick spies the legs and feet of a male – probably the owner – sticking out past the counter on the floor. One of the man's loafers has slipped off his foot and his white sock wicks up blood from the pool beneath him. Aw, hell…
As he's herded into the alley, Nick swipes his bloody fingers across the door frame; cayenne smears pointing to their exit.
The alley is surprisingly quiet and clear, all the action still out on Puesta del Sol. The CSI's are pushed toward the back of the boxy produce truck. The rear double doors swing open, and the one they keep calling Rabbit pushes Warrick forward until his thighs bang violently against the bumper of the truck.
"Get in, cop."
While Warrick climbs into the vehicle, Nick sniffs deeply, pulling blood and mucous from his sinuses down to the back of his throat. He coughs, gagging on the metallic phlegm, and spits to the side. The red mess hits the asphalt like an overripe strawberry.
Nick hopes it looks natural, his little street theater scene. He's doing his damnedest to leave clues; store to back room, back room to alley. He's planning on touching everything he can once he gets in the truck. When nightshift finds the vehicle abandoned – like he knows they will – at least they'll be able to connect the dots. He just hopes it's dots they'll be connecting, not bodies they'll be identifying.
The block is quiet but for the moans and swearing of Baggy, still face down in the dusty street, blood pouring from the bullet wound in his ass to pool on the ground beneath him. His wails are competing and winning against the tinny sirens fading in pursuit, and crying and hysterical screaming from the store front Brass's two wayward CSIs entered.
"Nice show, assholes," Jim mutters at the honeycomb of cruisers now chock-a-block down Puesta del Sol. All this sound and fury and saber rattling and all the bad guys have already fucking left.
He waits another few heartbeats to make sure no stragglers are around to take potshots at him, then slowly emerges from behind the paper box, wiping a shaking hand across stinging eyes.
One of the tans runs over, kicks away the discarded gun, and secures the bleeding Baggy's hands behind his back. The thug is hauled ungently to his feet, cursing and struggling despite the blood loss. He pulls back his head back and spits in the uni's face, and Jim turns a blind eye as Baggy gets his thanks for the nasty little present.
An older uni walks over slowly, head tilted to the side with concern as he approaches. He won't meet Jim's eyes.
"Tooley." Jim says it almost plaintively. They go way back. Ten years or more.
"Sorry, Jim," O'Toole replies, voice heavy with regret. "We, uh…" He pauses, tosses a look at a pair of tans chatting and staring. He squares his shoulders and glares at the two, flicking his chin at them to clear out and get moving. "Construction on Fremont," he finally offers, begging Jim with his eyes to let it be.
"Yeah," Jim says with a sigh. "Construction can be a real bitch. You got cleanup out here, Tooley. I've got some geeks to go round up."
Jim finally holsters his Sig, the metal warm on his hip as he replaces it in its worn leather pouch. O'Toole is still staring at him, reaches into a pocket and pulls out a handkerchief.
He offers it to Jim, and the detective accepts it. Takes it in a hand still not steady, and mops his brow with it. When he pulls it away it's streaked with bright red in a few places. He folds over the square and dabs at a sore spot on his cheek, wincing as he realizes too late that there's still something imbedded there. Glass, paper box, stucco?
Without another word to his old buddy he tucks the cloth into his pocket and makes his way over to the market.
A puddle of blood like chocolate pudding, skin on top and all, sits on the filthy sidewalk by the rusted out Caddie. Shit. The woman - the mother. And the kid.
The nameless one, the one who'd had the truck's original owner by the collar in the grocery, is driving. Nick can't see anything from the windowless, blown-shocks back of the truck, but it doesn't seem like they're being pursued. He doesn't hear any sirens, and that's a little heartbreak. His vision's still a bit swimmy, and every jolt and jostle sends him pinioning around the cold metal of the corrugated floor, bouncing off crates of fruit and vegetables. He presses his hand gingerly against the left side of his face, checking for fractures. Feels a little lucky when everything seems intact.
Warrick's seated to his left, perched on a stack of bagged onions. Conejo – 'Rabbit', Nick's brain translates – sits to Warrick's left, gun aimed and steady, flicking back and forth between the two of them.
The one called Jeff is on a cell to his right, screaming in Spanish to whomever's on the other end. It's rapid-fire, littered with slang, and hard for him to follow, what with the headache that's quickly clouding his brain. But he gets the gist of it.
These three, and two other gang members, had been in the neighborhood taking care of something when the gunfire erupted. The fourth of the group, their wheel man, ostensibly – nicknamed Cohete – had panicked and taken off, stranding the other three. The fifth guy didn't even get a mention – at least hadn't made it to the mercado with the others.
Jeff's pissed, threatening, warning of retribution, and making arrangements for the truck to be dumped after they reach their destination.
Warrick juts his chin in Nick's direction, asking without words if he's okay. Nick responds with a slight nod, a flick of his wrist that implies he'll make it, if not be a little sore.
Jeff punches the disconnect on the phone and pinches up his face, clenches his jaw. Nick watches the man's tattooed fingers blanch and whiten as he tightens them around the phone. A fraction of a second later, he watches the cell phone smash against the truck's wall just above Warrick's head. His partner ducks, wild-eyed, arms rising reflexively to cover his head.
"That little pussy is dead."
The one called Rabbit smiles and sniggers.
"You think this is funny, pelon?"
"Eh, man. They don't call the little bastard Cohete for nothing. I tol' you not to leave 'im in the car."
Jeff's eye's narrow, his head tilting to the left. "What'd you say to me?"
Rabbit's smile melts right off his face. "Bro takes off first sign of trouble. 'S why they call 'im Rocket, jefe."
Nick notices it instantly, from the corner of his eye sees Warrick does, too; the mollifying subversion of Jeff's name has been dropped twice, and both times the tattooed man has calmed and swelled a little. Jeff became jefe, and Jeff's CLEARLY not the boss – not el jefe in this gang - but he WANTS to be.
Both CSIs file that observation away for later.
"When we get to the shop," says Jeff, pointing at the wiry banger with the gun in Warrick's side, "You find Cohete and you take care of 'im. ¿Comprende?"
"I got you, hermano," says Rabbit, his smile returning as more of a smirk.
Both CSIs file that away, too.
To be continued...