Rez had obviously gathered information on the Jamaican's hideout
with this night in mind
.
Hills surrounded them on various sides and Dele immediately calculated that
topography
could actually prevent carnage.
Hills could
stop bullets,
provide cover. Still, the valley allowed sniping and the Demons had guns with sights that
would allow them to hit a quarry from several feet away.
Rez sent word that the men
had to take
the hills
by foot
,
with the weight of
their artillery
on their backs after which they would
descend into the valley. The gang members probably hadn't expected this amount of exertion
, especially the older
crew
.
There was some grumbling
and cursing
but they
continued
anyway, more intimidated by Rez's wrath than they were from their breathless excursion
. Dele felt his chest wound flaring up as he ascended
up a steep slope
.
The sound of pebbles dropping
warned him
of
the possibility of unexpected
rock slides, a u
sual occurrence in the mountain. As each man reached the top of
the rock
, they then had to
go down slopes with sharp descents. One wrong step and a man could fall several feet.
The whole setup was an utter fail from the point of view of the Demons.
Just climbing t
he hills wore out
older and out-of-shape
members,
diminishing
the full strength of the crew.
The geography was
probably
a key factor why the Jamaicans
had chosen such an out-of-the way location for their
quarters
.
They had access to f
ootpaths
and bike paths
for quick escape
.
T
here were
trees along the
valley
outskirts
among which
they could
store
their wares
out of the way of prying eyes
. Water tributaries could
hide their scent
from dogs
in case they needed to get away.
Basically w
hat was a strategic mess for the Demons made logistic
al
sense for the other gang.
From the crest of the hill the
lit
homes of
Pasadena
sparkled
like distant stars.
Thankfully, the nearby bike paths were closed tonight but Dele couldn't be sure there weren't lone stragglers who could get caught up in the crossfire.
Where the hell were the other gang members anyway? Dele couldn't see any
structures that would serve as
headquarter
s
or
some type of
meeting place. But Rez trudged on, leading his scraggly crew determined to bring the Jamaicans down and get Corrall out of the way.
Finally when every man had descended into the valley, Dele wondered why no one had remained on some of the rock
cropping
s above
for cover
. Now they were the ones vulnerable if any of the other gang members ascended with rifles or semi-automatics.
Rez
obviously hadn't considered this. Instead he
kept moving
toward his target, toward Corrall,
and the
other
men dutifully followed.
Dele had a bad feeling about this. Not so much the confrontation. Something about this just didn't make any sense. For one, even given the strategic location, it didn't seem to have any true indication of any habitation.
Rez moved toward an area of conifers. Maybe the gang house was hidden in the copse of trees. Hardly any light, even with a full moon. This again just didn't make any sense.
When a shadow moved away from one of the trees, Dele initially thought that it was just a Demon who had gone off track. The new man came up on another
of the crew
.
What happened next occurred with lightning speed. First
a
muffled sound
,
and then a grunt of pain.
The second man went down with hardly a sound.
The immediate smell of blood hit Dele and he turned just as the shadow came up on him. Instinct kicked in as he dodged a large knife that was meant to thrust into his back.
He grabbed the shadow with one
hand and butted the handle of the
glock
where he estimated the man's head was. It made contact and with a grunt the man went down.
Dele knew from the sounds of surprise and pain and the sudden gun reports that the Demons had been set up. They had walked into a trap.
Dele immediately headed deeper into the trees, traveling as fast as he could to distance himself from the moving
shadows
. He couldn't tell who was friend or foe in the
inky
dark
of the trees
. Obviously the Jamaicans had some sort of visual advantage over the Demons. In his trek he nearly fell into
one of the many tributaries that flowed down the hills
.
The splash of water
must have alerted one of the shadows because it stopped and headed back in Dele's direction. Before Dele could escape the man was standing over him. Even though he could only sense the attacker, the other man could obviously see him a whole lot better. Dele took a chance and without a thought of legal protocol, aimed for the man's face just as the man squeezed off a shot. Even given the attacker's visual advantage, instinct made Dele move just as both guns went off.
He got his man full in the face and the body collapsed
near him splashing into the water.
The sounds of screams cut short and semi-automatics being shot in the dark brought on the sense of a full war zone. Somewhere he heard Rez shouting and cursing, this followed by what sounded like the report of a Ruger. But then it was hard to differentiate the sounds of any of the guns the Demons had brought with them, let alone what weapons the Jamaicans had on them. They were obviously more versatile tonight: knives and guns.
Dele crawled along
the bank of the water, settled among the base of a
chaparral
.
Even with the cover of night and foliage, Dele knew he couldn't stay there indefinitely. Not that he had any loyalty to any of the Demons, many of whom would not hesitate to kill him if they found a reason,
he still couldn't just sit there
without trying to stop the wholesale slaughter.
Somehow the Jamaicans had gotten word about Rez's plans and had made sure he had gotten bad info. Their headquarters had never been here; it probably wasn't anywhere near the Valley.
But the geography of the San Raphael hills provided a good vantage for an ambush.
Rez and his crew were street fighters, more fit to fight in urban settings. The Jamaicans had counted on their rusty skills. And if Rez had brought over a hundred members, Dele figured from the sound of the melee that the other crew numbered at least that many if not more.
Dele followed the direction where he'd last heard Rez's yells. Just outside the group of trees was a moonlit valley floor of bodies and shadows. Shadows knifing other shadows, guns being aimed and bodies dropping.
Dele couldn't take a body count but he suspected many of the still forms on the ground were Demons.
Pretty soon, he and any surviving member
s
would be outnumbered and more vulnerable.
"Take that muthafucker!" Rez's voice rose above the sounds of war. Dele saw him in the more lit area of the valley arena. Moonlit, Rez's face was in a grimace as he shot off a round directly in the heart of his adversary. From what Dele could see, the slain Jamaican wasn't Corrall. If Corrall was even here.
Rez's plan had been torn apart before it had even taken form. Someone had sold him out, sold out the Demons.
As Dele emerged from his sanctuary, the body fell and Rez
immediately
looked around for someone else to kill. In the moonlight, his eyes fell on Dele with recognition.
But it was obvious from the man's face he did not consider Dele an ally.
"You did this muthafucker, you told them we were coming! That's what all that shit was about back at the warehouse! You set us up!"
Dele watched the Ruger raised toward his chest. Right at his heart. In the adrenaline of the fighting, Dele had overcome his pain. Survival was key.
Surviving was everything. ATF and police
protocol be damned.
Just as he had done with the Jamaican, he instinctively shifted his whole body and at the same time shot off a round, not sure if it would hit.
The bullet caught
him
in the shoulder and was powerful enough to knock him down.
As he fell, he saw Rez's body go down. His bullet had hit the man in the neck. Strangely, the eyes nearly glimmered in the moonlight. Vacant, non-seeing eyes.
Rez had finally gotten his due. And at the hands of a "Demon."
The pain was overwhelming. He was bleeding again and he just didn't have the strength to recover from this.
As
Dele
lay there, he listened to the chorus of more screams. One of them sounded familiar. Sounded like Skeet. Just as the haze drew him in
,
his last conscious thought was that maybe Carolyn was finally free.
He woke up to the smell of antiseptics, the sounds of
a gurney being wheeled, and to a
dull pain throbbing in his chest.
It took him a few minutes to gather that he was the one being wheeled.
Tubes fed into and out of him. At least three masked faces looked down on him. One of them said, "Good you're awake. Just in time. We couldn't locate any next of kin and we need to get you into surgery right away. Do we have your permission?"
Dele couldn't move his neck or shoulders. But he was able to whisper a weak "Yes" before he passed out again.
###
"Hey man, wake up," a familiar voice broke through the cloud surrounding his head, deafening his hearing.
Dele's
eyes fluttered
open
and a world of gray and white began taking form.
A caricature of Jud stood there, his face nothing but angles and circles. Dele blinked deliberately until the shapes made sense
and a clearer image emerged
. The agent was dressed in a Grateful Dead shirt and jeans, his standard office "uniform." He only dressed in
standard
wear when
formal meetings between the ATF and LAPD were scheduled
. His attempt to fight the "man" while still working within the system.
Dele's chest felt tight but he couldn't look down to determine why.
He pointed and Jud nodded.
"You had some metal near your shoulder and yeah, there was that old knife wound you forgot to call in. But then, you forgot to inform us about a whole hell of a lot. Including that
,
you know,
little squirmish you and the gang
got into
. I know we
have no love loss
back at the office, but feel free to share man, especially when your ass is getting kicked. As it is
,
we barely got you out of there in time. If you feel a little tightness that comes from several hours of surgery followed by being wrapped up like the mummy."
Things still weren't making sense.
The last thing he remembered was Rez. Rez falling down with a bullet.
Rez was dead and he was the one who'd killed him.
He felt as though he had defeated the Wicked Witch of the West. Now all he needed was a pair of red shoes to take him home.
He tried to speak, found he could only do it with effort.
"Hey man, just settle back," Jud aka Judson Pierce said with less of his usual casual cadence. There was actual concern in the agent's voice which made Dele realize that his bout with death had been closer than he'd thought.
He was determined to get his question out despite the pain and foggy head.
"How did you find me?" he asked, each word pronounced carefully, painfully.
"Your friend you stashed at the Elan. She found your secret
wallet
compartment. I told you that wasn't a safe place for anything sensitive."
Nailah. Nailah had found the number he'd stashed away in case anything happened to him. The number was a safety net, a lifeline, for just such an occasion as he had managed to live through. He'd forgotten that it was in the wallet. And somehow Nailah had found it. And contacted Jud. How did she know to call?