CHAPTER FOUR
. . . . .
. . . .
The gun was indisputably deadly, Rico's aim looked perfectly straight, and Carlton was annoyed.
"Do it," he snapped.
Rico didn't blink.
"You've been waffling about killing me for over two hours. Just do it already."
"Shut up." The coldness had spread from his unrelenting glare to his tone.
Carlton pushed on, "And hey, if your cousin hasn't already heard us yelling, for damn sure he'll hear the shot. If you're lucky maybe he'll bring you the drugs personally."
Huh, sounded like the snarkiness he'd been withholding earlier was back on the job. God and Juliet forgive him if this really did get him killed. She might not love him back, but she'd be seriously pissed off if he irritated someone into murdering him.
Rico remained steely. "Where's the phone?"
He jerked his head back toward the trunk.
But when Rico took a step closer, he said, "There's not much point in destroying it now."
"Why not, bro? I could beat you in the head. Lot quieter than a gunshot… once you stop screaming."
Good one, he thought. "Maybe so, but there's something else I forgot to tell you."
The gun… damn, that gun was aimed precisely.
"Spit it out."
"I'm a cop. SBPD. My partner's been tracking my phone so people already know approximately where I am. Shoot me, and you've as good as killed your family yourself."
Gone instantly was the steeliness; Rico came at him in a rage, forgetting the gun, using his fists instead, and they fought.
It wasn't pretty and it wasn't organized. It was just ugly.
Carlton went down fast but hoped not to be there for long; Rico was bulkier and fueled by emotion and rage and despair and all Carlton had besides the head wound was training and cussedness.
But he scored several meaningful punches while taking a few himself, and it wasn't until they were both down and Rico was on top trying to choke him that he started to think that his cussedness and training might not be enough after all.
He somehow shoved Rico back and off him and rolled away but Rico got hold of a sharp stick and struck him with it—and then stuck him with it, hard and deep in the thigh, and Carlton thought plainly oh hell that's gonna cost me big and walloped him in the jaw with the last bit of his energy before he was free.
Rico fell to the dirt a few feet away, breathing raggedly, and Carlton scrambled back weakly to lean against the car, keeping his hand over the stab wound and trying to believe the amount of blood coming from it was a minor issue.
Disbelief wasn't going to work. He pulled off his tee and used it to wrap around the wound tightly, and the chill breeze in the air against his bare skin helped cool him off and settle his brain back into some kind of functionality.
Rico wasn't getting up. He stared at the night sky and Carlton could see tears on his cheek.
"Okay," Carlton said unevenly, "there goes the plan of taking on your cousin."
Nothing from the other man.
"We can still help your family."
Still silence.
"I can set up an extraction. Tell me where they are and the SBPD can get them out. DEA can come up here and take care of your cousin."
"What the hell are you talking about." It wasn't a question, just a weary statement.
"Why didn't you go to the cops in the first place? And don't give me that bull about us not caring." He brushed dirt off his face, feeling increasingly tired.
Rico's fist closed around a clump of grass but he didn't answer.
Carlton suggested shrewdly, "You have a record."
Nothing.
"Maybe there's even an outstanding warrant out on you. Something minor. Weed, unpaid traffic tickets."
A heavy sigh.
"Who'd they take?"
He waited. Eyed the blood-soaked tee. Thought dispassionately that the conversation had better speed up.
Another heavy sigh. Rico seemed to have given up all resistance. "My sister Elena and her son Tomasito. He's got Down syndrome."
Bastards, he thought, and felt it keenly. "Who are these guys?"
It took a while, a while during which Carlton's head pounded and his bloody leg had begun to scream in pain, but Rico talked. He named off a low-level gang on the edges of Carlton's awareness, one with only about seven members, of which Malo—the aptly named cousin—had been a part until he took off with their latest drug score, a kilo of cocaine.
When Rico was done, judging by the heavy silence from his side of the road, Carlton knew there was only one sensible course of action: retreat.
"You know where they're holding Elena and Tomasito?"
"Yeah."
"Guarded?"
"Fence. Dogs. Lights."
"We can get them out."
"So what. They'll just come after us later. They'll kill Elena and Tomasito just to get at me, and then they'll kill me too. And I don't care about me, but Tomasito…" He rubbed his face.
"We can get them out," he repeated, "and with your testimony and the coke, we'll get Malo and Padilla's crew too."
"You can't promise that." Weary, still unbelieving.
Which torked Carlton off royally, pain and blood loss notwithstanding. "Suck it. I'm the head damned detective and I might make mistakes but when I tell you your family is safe, you can count that as gold."
They might have sounded overly bold, those words, and his promises didn't mean other agencies wouldn't bung things up later on, but by God, he'd make sure this one turned out right.
Rico sighed but didn't argue.
Carlton tried to get up… then tried again. Damned leg, still bleeding through the tee. He felt more than slightly woozy.
He finally made it upright on the third try, while Rico watched idly from his still-prone position, and reached down into the trunk to find where he'd tucked the phone. "I'm calling this in," he said. "Get things moving."
The phone was only just in his grasp when Rico said slowly, "So that woman… she's your partner?"
Rico, the bastard, was a lot smarter than Carlton wanted him to be.
"Shut up."
"Smooth move, amigo." A trace of amusement.
"I told you I was an idiot. Now shut up. I'm working."
But before he followed through, he was hit by a wave of exhaustion, mixed with what the hell can I say to her and how the hell is this going to work and man I gotta sit down. He lurched to the passenger door and got in. Never thought he'd willingly let someone else drive him in his own Fusion, but adapting, his therapist once told him, was sort of important.
Rico got to his feet and approached, dusting himself off. "You don't look so good."
"There's a duffel bag back in the trunk. Got water and some first aid supplies. And another t-shirt." There was also extra ammo tucked in one pocket but with his Glock 'safe' at home, big whoop.
In a minute Rico came back with the supplies. He'd found some granola bars too and tossed them onto the dash. He handed Carlton the shirt, obviously expecting him to put it on, but it was more useful as an additional wrapping for his leg, not that he had the strength to tie it off. Rico had to help, and Rico was starting to look a little unsettled about the current reality.
Carlton rested his head against the seatback. "Okay. I'm okay. Get in. Get us on the road."
Rico obeyed, and Carlton did the really scary thing: he called Juliet.
. . . . .
. . . .
Karen Vick had come along to ask how Juliet was doing and to tell her the rangers were closing in on the GPS signal. Juliet realized Karen was tired and agitated too and wondered why Carlton wanted to be Chief when there were times it clearly sucked.
One of the techs called after her that the GPS signal was on the move, and two seconds later, Juliet's cell screen lit up.
Her heart started a drum solo and she could hardly make out her own voice, saying his name, knowing it sounded pleading.
"Put him on speaker," Karen commanded, and gone was any hope of privacy.
"Carlton!" Juliet said more forcefully once she'd complied.
"O'Hara." Oh that blessedly smoky cranky voice. "I've got a lot of information, so listen up."
"Are you okay?"
"Detective," Karen interrupted, "what's the situation?"
"I'm with Rico—" He paused, and they heard the sound of another voice. "Mengual. He's in the system. I need you to move in on an address and extract two people, his sister and nephew." Another pause filled by the muffled voice. "Elena Delgado and her son Tomasito. He's 5 and has Down syndrome. They're being held by members of Gael Padilla's gang at the following address." He paused again, and while the other voice spoke, Juliet thought Carlton's breathing grew labored.
No, no, no… you have to be all right. I need you to be all right. I have so much to tell you. To make up to you.
He repeated the address, and fell silent a moment.
For some reason it terrified her.
Karen started to speak but Carlton found his voice again. "DEA needs to move in on Malo Mengual, whose last location was no more than half a mile from wherever my stationary GPS signal put me. He's got a kilo of coke which Padilla thinks is his. Lives out of his pickup truck. Got a camper shell."
Juliet didn't care about one damned bit of that. "Carlton, are you all right?"
"Little banged up," he said shortly.
There was some sort of scuffle and suddenly a new voice spoke, half-embarrassed and all urgent, while Carlton cursed in the background. "I kinda stabbed him in the leg. He's bleeding all over the car. I don't—"
Carlton regained the phone—longer arms, Juliet knew—and snapped, "Just start the extraction. Padilla's holding them in exchange for Rico bringing in the coke."
"Detective, the techs say you're on the move."
"Yeah, we're headed back to Camuesa from the Mono area."
"All right. I'll notify the rangers to intercept. You need medical attention."
"Elena and Tomasito take priority," he said flatly.
"The rangers will help you while we help Elena and her son." Her tone was implacable and Juliet was glad, glad he had no choice but to be helped, but she hadn't missed the edge of panic in Rico's voice. Carlton's annoyance aside, he must be in bad shape.
The Chief nodded at Juliet and headed to the conference room to issue a rapid-fire stream of commands, and Juliet took the phone off speaker mode and put the phone to her ear. "Carlton?"
"O'Hara," he said. "I'm okay."
"You don't sound okay."
"I will be. Rico says we're not far from Camuesa so the rangers should be able to pick us up soon."
But his voice was slowing, his speech a little uneven. She knew they were on a dirt road but it wasn't rocky terrain affecting how his words came out. "How much blood have you lost?"
He took a breath. "Upholstery might need to be replaced."
Her heart squeezed and she found it hard to even know what to say.
"O'Hara," he began. "Don't worry. About anything. From now or before. Business as usual."
"No," she protested. "No—"
"I mean it. Business…" A breath. "As…"
Funny sounds, Rico cursing, some kind of muffled… something.
"Carlton? Carlton, talk to me!"
But it was Rico who answered, and he sounded scared. "He passed out. I gotta get us to the road."
. . . . .
. . . .