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.
Jim pulls his gun free once again, eases himself slowly around the door of the mercado. There, at the front of the store, back against the wall under the front window, sit three people. The mother, screaming and sobbing, clutching her kid to her breast tight enough to suffocate, and an old man.
"Hey!" he whisper-yells. "Hey-" trying to get one of their attentions. The senior señor looks up and shakes his head.
Jim pulls his suit coat free of his badge, then makes a pretend gun with his left while the real one stays in his right. "¿Hombres malos?" he asks while pulling a phantom trigger. "¿Aqui?" And that's pretty much the extent of his Spanish.
The old man keeps shaking his head, then points a gnarled finger toward the back of the store. "Se fueron en mi camioneta con los dos policies."
And all Jim gets out of it is policia. "¿Dos policia?" he asks clumsily, flashing the old guy two digits.
"Si. Se los llevaron a los dos."
Jim sighs sadly, dropping the gun down a bit as he sidles further into the market. He lifts his radio from his hip, thumbs the call button. "Dispatch, this is Bravo Robert Alpha. Where are my buses?"
"Bravo Robert Alpha, we are waiting on an all clear of scene before medical personnel respond. They're waiting one block over on 15th."
"Well, tell 'em it's clear and to get their asses over here!" he spits back.
"Roger that," the operator says coolly.
"Yeah, roger this," Jim mutters as he clips his radio back in place.
The mother's shoulder wound is still bleeding but she's also still conscious. Jim drops down to his haunches next to her. "Ma'am? You habla any English?"
The little boy wrests his head from her embrace and shakes his head. Tears and blood from his mom's wound have ruined the bright yellow Sponge Bob tee. "She doesn't speak English," the boy says with only the lightest of accents. He wipes a pudgy brown hand across his upper lip, dragging a shiny string of mucus with it.
Jim reaches into his pocket, pulls out the handkerchief Tooley had given him. There's still some free white space and Jim folds the square over and hands it to the little boy.
The kid stares at it as if it might bite, and it's clear he has no idea what it's for. Jim mimes wiping his nose and the boy parrots him, then tries to hand back the cloth.
Jim smiles and waves his hand. "It's yours, kid. What's your name?"
"Carlos. My mama calls me Carlito."
"Okay, Carlito." Jim tries again. "The policemen--Did you see what happened to them?"
The boy shakes his head and casts his look back to his mother. Her eyes are fluttering and her grasp on the boy tightens desperately. "Carlito?" she moans, fingers twining in his t-shirt.
"Aquí estoy, mami." And the boy starts to cry again, burrowing into his mother's arms.
Good one, Jim. He's four. He looks over at the old guy, then turns to shout over his shoulder. "Hey!"
A uni stands outside the doorway, talking into his radio, raises one finger - hold on. He drops the radio and walks over. "What ya need, Cap'n?"
"Find me someone who can speak Spanish."
"You got him." The clearly non-Latino officer bounces on his heels as he waits.
"Youspeak Spanish…" He eyes up the name tag "…Abramowitz?"
"Sure do, Cap'n. High school 'n' four years at WLVNU."
"Okay, college boy. You wanna take a crack at the old guy? I'm missing two CSIs and if I know those two…I just wanna know if he knows what happened to them."
Ten minutes later - after the flattest, most stilted and most formal Spanish Jim has ever had the misfortune to suffer through - and all he has is what Gramps tried to tell him; the men with guns took the two policemen.
The old man isn't sure of the license plate of his own goddamned truck, and the registration is in the glove compartment. The produce came up from Mexico under less than clear circumstances. He doesn't recall the name of the import company.
So Jim puts out a BOLO on a white panel truck, maybe with the name of a produce or import company on the side or maybe on the door. Maybe. Just his fucking luck the old guy's practically senile to boot.
Then he notices the old guy meeting eyes with the mother. The bus has arrived and a paramedic is working on her shoulder wound and she's at least stopped crying now. But the look that passes between the two of them has Jim's attention.
"Abramowitz, tell the guy you don't believe he doesn't know who took our guys."
"He seems on the up 'n' up, Cap'n," the uni says uncertainly.
"Just tell him," Jim replies tiredly.
The uni shrugs and tells the old man what Jim said. The response is immediate and Jim mentally high fives himself.
"No, no. No sé nada." The old man's eyes start shifting all around and he gets excited, nervous.
The woman averts her eyes and pulls her son in tighter.
"Tell him we can protect him, Abramowitz," Jim urges. But the old guy's not having it. And when Jim tries to get the uni to work on the mother, the woman starts crying again and the paramedic flashes Jim a glare. Wraps an arm protectively around the woman and helps her onto the waiting gurney.
"Son of a--" Jim is suddenly tired of dirty, accusing looks. Tired of the articles that still appear at least once a week in the Sun. Cops accused of brutality, cops accused of mistreating suspects, hassling the innocent. Profiling, bribery, and next would probably be shooting unarmed puppies, nuns and children.
He's a good cop. A good fucking man, and he's tired of fighting to prove it. His troubles have been unfairly dumped on the heads of two science geeks supposedly under his protection. Two copologists who should be somewhere in a lab, wielding microscopes and fingerprint brushes, not Glocks. He knows why they entered the fight- knows they were the only ones around willing to catch his back. And now they're in the hands of who the fuck knows, having who the fuck knows what happening to them.
He wheels around, pointing a meaty, still – damn it - shaking finger at the old guy and the woman. "Take the old guy --"
"Name's Chavez. Uh, Hugo Chavez," Abramowitz stutters under Jim's glare.
Jim takes in a breath. "Take Chavez down to the station. Put him in front of a mug book and tell him he's not fucking leaving 'til he picks a face. And get another uni over to the hospital for the woman. When she's out, she's ours. They're both material fucking witnesses and I'm tired of the Sergeant Shultz shit! I want answers!"
The medic, the witnesses, and the uni all stare at him like he's grown a second head.
Jim balls up his fist, takes a deep, shuddering breath, then releases his fingers long enough to loosen his tie and check the button on his jacket. He smoothes a hand over his balding pate, wipes the sweaty palm on his slacks, and leaves the store to make a phone call.
"Gil? Yeah, it's Jim. We have a situation."
He and Nick both sneak casual glances on their quick trip from back of the truck to the back of the building, gathering any clues as to their new location. The 'shop' turns out to be an upholstery shop; a low-ceilinged, sprawling, cinderblock number tucked into the back corner of a mostly tenantless industrial park.
They'd only driven for about twenty minutes. He figures - take maybe five of that off for side streets and back alley diversions? Estimating in the average speed? He looks southwest and sees a chain link fence knitted silver across the sand. It's pretty far off, but it's definitely the government property line of Nellis Air Force Base. Just before they're both shoved against the back of the building, he sees Nick looking in the same direction.
"Hands flat on the wall. Spread 'em." Rabbit presses against the back of Warrick's head, kicks at the inside of his ankles. "Assume the position!"
He feels the banger's laughter on his neck.
"Man, I always wanted to say that to a cop."
Next to him, Nick's getting the same treatment from Jeff, if not a little rougher.
Warrick wants to ask what the plan is, wants to ask it not just of their captors, but of Nick. He stays silent, though, as the punk's hands brisk unkindly around his waist, over his legs and ankles. He's pretty sure these guys would have let the woman die, bleed out, if they'd taken her. Knows they made the right choice. The only choice, really. God knows what would have happened to the kid; dumped somewhere, scared and alone, probably. Motherless.
Their 'cop' status may keep them alive.
Or might just get them killed.
A service door opens beside the larger bay door as the pat down winds up. They're pulled from their positions against the wall as two more bangers join the ball.
Warrick sees the smear of red left on the wall by Nick's face, and rushes to catch his partner's eye. He reads a quick, 'Yeah, he's bein' a dick, but I'm fine' before Nick's pushed down to his knees, hands on his head. Then Warrick's turned, face away, and pushed to his, as well.
The whistle starts high, piercingly, and gradually drops in octaves; the straight-to-hell flight of a missile. "Pelon. Alex is flipping, man! You lost your mind, Jeff."
Warrick can't see New Guy, but he likes him. If only because New Guy is giving Jeff shit.
"Where's that little fucker, Cohete?" asks Jeff.
His voice is closer, farther from Nick, and that gives Warrick a bit of relief. But there's still a lot of energy coming off the wanna-be leader, and New Guy is aggravating it.
"I wouldn't worry 'bout Cohete, man. I'd worry about el jefe."
"I'd worry 'bout tu boca if I was you right now, ese. That, and stepping off."
Conejo hisses out a chuckle next to Warrick, and the CSI hopes his partner is taking notes on the hierarchy reveals, too.
"'Sides," says Jeff, voice like cool steel, "I can handle Alex."
New guy clucks his tongue and sing-songs in a placating tone, "Okay, man. I'm just trying to give you a heads up. Mantén los ojos abiertos, pelon. And until you get everything straight with these cerdos? I'd leave the shit with Cohete alone, man."
Warrick hears the gravel rumble; someone's stepping up to someone.
"Damn, ese. I knew there was a reason I hated the whitemeat cop; he reminds me of you. Always wanting to give advice," hisses Jeff. "Why don't you look at his face right now – pelon – and see where it got him."
There's a moment of complete silence, and then soft-lobbed laughing that's clearly New Guy's capitulation.
The gambler's mask Warrick's worked years to perfect betrays him with a twist at the corner of his mouth. Two very bad things have just become clear: no one wants to push Jeff to his limit; and the violent, possibly unstable guy is Nick's new worst enemy.
"That's cool, Jeff. Mira. Me and Joker, we're gonna go dump the truck for you. Get it off your hands," says New Guy.
"Yeah. You do that. I want it gone, and I want it clean."
"Okay pues, man. Consider it done. Las llaves?
Warrick hears the jangle of keys slapping palm, and two sets of footsteps kick across the lot. He's pulled to his feet as the truck rumbles to life.
"Let's go, cop."
He hears a grunt from Nick, then the scuff of his boots in the gravel. They're both propelled forward through the service door into the shop.
"For the last time, I don't care if he's going to Desert Palms! He's goin' cuffed!"
Jim stabs a finger at the blanket clad form of Baggy, strapped on his stomach to a stretcher being loaded into the back of an ambulance.
The uni nearest the rig glares balefully at the medic who hesitates only a moment then lifts the banger's non-IV punctured hand a few inches. The patrolman steps up and snaps a silver bracelet around Baggy's wrist, securing the other end to the stretcher frame. The wounded man has lost a lot of blood but still manages the strength to test the connection, rattling the cuffs loudly, letting out a string of Spanish curses.
"Yeah, I hear ya," Jim mutters, then waves off the medics to transport.
A Lab issued Denali pulls up, lights flashing, no siren. Jim peers thru the dust-coated windshield, noting the two forms emerging from the SUV.
Gil gets out slowly, methodically. He opens the back door and begins to put together bags of equipment. Catherine dispenses with procedure and comes stalking over quickly, her impatience tripping her up, her heels catching in the rough grooves of the patchwork pavement.
"Are you okay, Jim?" she asks, rubbing her hand on his shoulder.
He's not in the mood for it, regardless of her intentions. He shakes off the hand, kind of abruptly he knows, but then curls a small smile onto his face for her. "I'm fine, Catherine, thanks for asking."
She swivels her head, taking in the scene around them. Two pools of blood, more bullets and shell casings than can be absorbed. And bullet holes riddle practically everything in sight: store fronts, the paper box, most of the vehicles on the street.
"My God," she breathes. "It's like October all over again."
Jim winces at her comparison. "Yeah, another visit with IAB. Reminds me I gotta schedule my annual proctology exam."
Catherine smiles wanly. Gil joins them, heavy satchel in each hand. Ready for work.
"Jim," Gil says succinctly with a nod of greeting. "Tell me what happened."
"Started off as a normal run. Dead female - a teenager, apparently pregnant. David did his thing, found out the belly was a fake."
"Where have we seen that before?" Catherine breaks in dryly.
"Yeah. So Stokes and Brown had the scene. David had just removed the vic when we heard gunfire. I radioed in, told the guys to stay put…" He sees Gil take in a breath to respond and holds up a hand. "They only came when no one else did. I'm tellin' you Gil, it was me in the middle of the Hatfields and McCoys, South of the Border style. Bullets were flying everywhere."
He stops and draws in a breath, rolls his head on his neck, exhaling slowly. "I radioed in again. No love. Meantime a civilian, a young mother, was hit. And her kid…" He pauses, licks dry lips and chuckles to himself in disbelief that the kid hadn't been hit. "The kid, four year old, I think…he, uh…he broke away from his mom, panicked, you know?" He chuffs out another small laugh. "Not that I didn't, but at least I had the sense to stay put."
He pulls in another quick breath, his heart picking up pace with the remembered action.
"Anyway, the kid ran out into the middle of all this shit. Next thing I know, our two heroes show up. They break cover, grab the mom and kid, and make for the storefront." His hand stirs the air vaguely in the direction where he last saw the CSIs.
"Other than that, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?" Gil asks calmly.
Jim barks out a laugh and wipes distractedly at the sweat-soaked nape of his neck. A cool breeze blows across it and he shrugs his shoulders inside his suit coat, trying to push his collar up higher. "By the time the cavalry shows up, all the Indians have headed back into the hills. Found the mom and the kid in the store. There's a guy behind the counter - the owner or the help - not sure. And an old guy who was delivering produce to the market. Best I can get outta them is that some tattooed muscle was in the shop. Saw their opportunity for some hostages with shields, and took off with our guys."
"They had front row seats, Jim," Catherine huffs incredulously. "That's the best you can get?"
"They're all doin' impressions of Easter Island statues in there, Cath. Whoever's got Brown and Stokes must be scarier than me."
Gil hefts his bags up an inch and lets them drop at his sides. He curls a half smile on to his face. "Well, if they're not talking, perhaps we can see if the scene tells us something."
He and Warrick are walked through the shop, twisted around work tables topped with orphaned auto seats in different stages of tear-down and rebuild. The place is set up for business; they probably even do some actual upholstery work. Nick knows most gangs of this size and presence are smart enough to have a line of money coming from some legitimate source, if for no other reason than to keep the police a little less curious.
They pass through to a smaller back area that's been decked out like a loft apartment. Headquarters; the bad guys' lair. It pisses him off just a bit that they have a nicer TV than his. He and Rick are forced into chairs a few feet apart from each other. When his hands start to slip from his head, they're grabbed roughly and shoved back in place.
"Keep 'em there, cop. 'Til I tell you different."
"Sorry, man. Arms are just gettin' a little numb."
There's the metallic slide and cock of a gun, and Nick feels cool steel against the nape of his neck.
"Man, if you don't shut the fuck up, I'm gonna make you numb from the neck, up."
"Nick, man," Warrick warns, low.
"Conejo. Go get some Zips and something to gag these hijos de puta. I can't think with all their fucking talking!"
The last word is harshly yelled in Nick's ear, and he flinches in response; pulls his head slightly to the side and feels the chill of the muzzle stutter over the crest of his spine.
Rabbit snickers and hops from the room, sliding his gun into the back of his shorts as he leaves.
Jeff slips around in front of both of them, pulling over another chair. He spins it backwards and sits down, exhaling a huge breath. Everything about him seems to relax except the arm holding the gun. He juts his chin at Warrick. "You gotta learn to regulate your posse, man." Jeff's head dips toward Nick. "Teach that one to be quiet."
"'S not my posse. He's my partner."
"Either way, hermano. His mouth's getting you both in trouble."
Rabbit skitters back in. Nick's hands are pulled behind his back and encircled by plastic Zip-ties; tightly and effectively cuffed to the spindles of the wooden chair. The banger moves to do the same to Warrick after tossing Jeff two blue bandannas.
Jeff snatches them from the air and slips his gun into his waistband. He rises and glides behind Nick, twirling one of the squares like a locker room towel. He snaps the snake of coiled cloth in front of Nick's face and leans in close to his ear, hard chin jutting overtop Nick's hiked shoulders "Abre, cop."
Fuck me. He drops his jaw an inch, and the bandanna is forced the rest of the way past his reluctant lips. The blue cotton tastes sharp; like limed corn. He coughs around the sensation of it on his tongue, scent filling his nose.
Jeff hitches the gag tighter than he needs to and the corners of Nick's mouth are yanked back in a carnival grimace.
His upper lip splits open a littler farther; the warm copper of blood rushes over his exposed gums, through his teeth, smearing on the roof of his mouth. His left cheek is pulled up even higher, effectively closing off the vision in his already swollen eye. He huffs an angry 'Shit!' that comes out as nothing more threatening than a push of breath. His head pops back when Jeff tugs on the double knot at the bottom of his skull.
"Not so much to say now, eh, cop?"
Nick doesn't give him the satisfaction of any kind of response. Bound and gagged? Yeah, their chances are drying up like rain in the desert. And his guilt meter's starting to register the accusation Jeff dropped; that it's him and his mouth getting WARRICK in trouble, too. Mostly because it's true. So, just shut the hell up, and keep your partner safe.
He's fighting the drums in his head, trying to process the back-and-forth Spanish nattering between Jeff and Rabbit, when the conversation stops abruptly. He cranes his neck to get his right eye on Warrick, praying nothing's happened.
His partner's fine – aside from the obvious – and lets Nick know with darting eyes and a subtle half-nod that the brick through the window of conversation is behind them, to the right.
"Hey, Alex," says Jeff.
Nick can't make out any features; the doorway is too far behind him, and the edges of his vision are blurry and grey. But someone tall and lean is standing in the threshold, posture like a soldier. He cranes a little more, and the short hairs on the back of his neck pinch where they're caught in the knot of the gag.
"What the fuck were you thinking?"
Nick's surprised by the calm in the man's voice; surprised it can exist with all the pronouncement and malice weaving through it. No more questioning who's the boss.
"I guess I was thinking, 'Man, I wish Alex's little cousin hadn't taken off in the car, stranding me, as soon as heard a couple fucking bullets pop'."
Perfect. Out of the middle of one gang war, into another. Because this kind of personality conflict, this kind of antler-smashing, alpha-male, line-of-piss-in-the-sand-crossing bullshit ALWAYS comes to a head.
The man steps into the room, arms crossed over his narrow chest. He's tatted like Jeff and the others, but not as heavily so. At least, not his face. As the gang leader crosses and comes to stand in front of them, Nick can see the three blue-black tear drops tattooed to fall over his right cheekbone.
Alex's eyes crawl intently over Nick and Warrick, then shift up and behind them. His head shakes lightly left and right. "We don't call him Cohete for nothing, Jeff. You know that. This is on you, pelon."
"Well, sometimes rockets explode."
"And sometimes people make stupid mistakes. Like this mierda right here." An inked arm leaves his chest and floats in front of Nick and Warrick. "¿Qué te pasó por la cabeza, hermano?"
"My head was in getting out of that mercado alive."
"And kidnapping two cops was the only way to do that?"
"Hey! If that mariposón de tu primo? If he didn't take off? We would have been out of there. Me, Conejo, and Roman. The way I see it, this is all Cohete's fault."
Alex drops his look to the floor, his head shaking sadly back and forth.
Nick sees the muscles of the man's jaw pulse and jump as his head rises and his eyes bore into what he knows are Jeff's, behind him.
"And this is just another case, Jeff," says Alex, "Of you and me not seeing things the same way."