Battle Cry Page 3

  And the knowledge that if I don’t, neither of us will ever be at peace.

  Leaving the memory behind, I turn to the right. Walking past a pair of windows with the curtains pulled closed, I can hear the faint sound of a television playing. Belying it, the low din of an air conditioner humming.

  Reaching the door of the room neighboring mine, I curl my middle and index fingers. Knocking twice, I step back, my body thrumming with anticipation, anxious to set off on a journey I would have rather started twelve hours before.

  Turning away a moment, I fix my gaze on the gathering clouds along the horizon. Without even meaning to, I feel my weight shift from one foot to the other. In the back of my mind, I can feel seconds ticking by.

  How the hell I plan to sit still for the next two-plus hours is anybody’s guess.

  The sound of an old-school door chain being slid across pulls my attention back. A moment later, the weather stripping on the door wheezes. The television grows louder.

  “Hey there,” Valerie Ogo says. Opening the door no farther than necessary, she slides out sideways, closing it in her wake.

  Dark hair still damp from a recent shower hangs down on either side of her face. It drags across the shoulders of a Peanuts Halloween t-shirt picked up yesterday on our shopping excursion to Kohl’s.

  “Morning,” I reply. “Just wanted to let you know I’m taking off.”

  Digging into the front pocket of my shorts, I produce a piece of paper and extend it her way. “This is the number of my friend Jeff Swinger. He’s off today and said he’ll be around if you guys need anything.”

  The initial smile fades as realization sets in. Her dark eyes flick from me to the paper. A series of questions seem to pass her features, though all she manages to get out is, “Swinger. He’s the tall one-”

  “With the tattoos,” I finish, already knowing where she is going with it. “Google Maps says it’s a little over two hours each way. Not sure how long we’ll talk, but hopefully I’ll be back by dinnertime.”

  Her gaze remains on the paper before slowly reaching out to accept it. Unfolding the single crease through the middle, she scans what is written there, nothing more than a name and ten digits.

  Just as fast, she refolds it, hands falling to her sides.

  The look on her face tells me there is still plenty she wants to say. Wishes for a safe drive. Good luck on sitting down with the man we were both put on the trail of just yesterday afternoon.

  Perhaps even a bit of longing to come along, the events of the last week having affected them only nominally less than myself.

  None of which actually crosses her lips as I nod my farewell, climb into my car, and drive away.

  Chapter Six

  The sign along the road announces the name of the place to be The Jumping Bean. Printed in bright red letters, the title frames a cartoon drawing of a coffee bean wearing a sombrero leaping into the air. Stick legs are bent up beneath it, coffee cups extended to either side.

  A few feet beyond it sits a small, squat structure. Made of concrete block, the front is lined with windows. The same name and emblem from the sign are both emblazoned across the glass.

  Inside, a small handful of patrons can be seen. With the time now approaching ten o’clock, long gone is the morning rush, leaving behind nothing more than a thin smattering of locals and retirees.

  Assuming, of course, that there is much more of a clientele to even speak of. Well away from the freeway, the spot is more of a neighborhood hideout than a place that would be actively sought.

  Which, Byrdie guesses, is exactly the point.

  The engine of his motorcycle rumbles just slightly as he gooses the gas, making a left into the parking lot of the structure. Rolling to the back end of the lined spaces along the side of the building, he parks beside the sole other bike in sight.

  Climbing off, he spots the man he is there to meet sitting alone on a picnic table behind the building. Perched on top of it, his feet are drawn up on the bench seat beneath him. His elbows rest on his knees, a cup of coffee nestled in his hands.

  Across his chest hangs the same leather vest Byrdie wore every day for nearly two decades.

  A streak that ended abruptly just twenty-six hours before.

  Wariness rises in Byrdie as he slowly ambles across the parking lot. His gaze sweeps to either side, looking to see if any other members of the Wolves are lurking nearby.

  Stocked with a handful of throwaway vehicles for moments when they don’t want to be spotted, the fact that there are no other motorcycles nearby means nothing.

  As he does so, the man seated on the picnic table makes no effort to lift his gaze. Focus fixed on the ground before him, his features are glacial.

  Closing the gap between them, Byrdie’s right hand pulls back a couple inches toward his hip. His nerves tingle, whole body ready to grab the snub-nose revolver tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

  “Hey,” Byrdie says. He stops a few feet short of the table, allowing enough room to dodge a knife strike if need be. His weight is balanced, ready to lunge at the slightest sign of aggression.

  A sign that, as yet, doesn’t appear imminent.

  Across from him, Snapper flicks his gaze up. Never accused of being a handsome man to begin with, this morning seems to be particularly rough. A heavy layer of growth lines his chin, flecks of white dotting the bristles. Dark bags bely his eyes, giving him the appearance of a hound dog.

  His trademark teeth – the source of his nickname – jut out between his lips, his breathing especially loud.

  Fixing his gaze on Byrdie, he asks, “Did you do it?”

  There is nothing more. Nor does there need to be.

  Rooted in place, Byrdie feels his chest tighten. Sensation pulsates through him, warmth rising to the small of his back.

  “Do what?”

  Snapper doesn’t answer immediately. He keeps his gaze aimed on Byrdie, his eyes boring into him.

  Eventually, he says, “Ringer.”

  Byrdie’s hand pulls back another half-inch. His mouth goes dry, his tongue scraping against the back of his teeth.

  He takes a breath. Reminds himself that he is ready for this.

  Even if he already knows exactly what happened last night, he has to play the part. He needs to still be the outcast that is salty about being shoved out the previous morning. The guy that woke up in the desert and is trying to decipher things moving forward.

  “What about him?” he asks. Letting his distaste show, he adds, “Change his mind? Send you here as a peace offering?”

  Again, Snapper says nothing. He merely sits and stares, visibly wading through some sort of internal debate. After the better part of a minute, he grunts slightly. Lifting the coffee, he takes a long pull, droplets seeping between the jagged crevices of his misshapen fangs.

  “Dead.”

  Hearing the word, the complete finality of it, Byrdie forces his brows to rise. His eyes bulge, just as he practiced in the mirror of the cheap motel room this morning.

  Surprised enough to register shock, without going over the top.

  When he first got the call asking to meet, Byrdie’s initial thought was he was being set up. The Wolves had found out what happened in Chula Vista and were fingering him for it.

  A logical conclusion to reach, especially after what had gone down between he and Ringer the day before.

  Not to mention, he was the one to pull the trigger.

  Certain the Wolves were going to finish what had started the day before, that this time he would be tossed straight into an unmarked grave, he thought of bolting. His revenge extracted, it was time to get far away from San Diego. Leave the Wolves and whatever else far in the rearview mirror.

  The only thing that changed his mind was the suggestion to meet at The Jumping Bean. Tucked tight into a neighborhood in Mira Mesa, no way would they try to lure him here of all places if they were looking to take him out.

  If that was the case, they would have asked him
to swing by The Wolf Den. Or a roadside rest stop. Or a thousand other places much better suited for such a thing.

  This place told him something different.

  A couple days prior, the head table for the Wolves consisted of four men. A leader and three deputies. Two of those are now dead, both put down by Byrdie the night before.

  The remaining pair are now behind a tiny coffee spot far from The Wolf Den, well beyond the reach of any prying eyes. As clear an indicator as any that this isn’t a kill mission, but a call for help. The new de facto top man reaching out to the second longest-tenured member of the Wolves.

  A man that was himself a deputy until the day before.

  All of which makes for a situation Byrdie can certainly use to his advantage.

  “Damn,” he mutters. “What happened?”

  Snapper’s gaze shifts back to the pavement before him. “Shot, last night at the old woman’s house.”

  Byrdie inches forward, his boots scraping over asphalt.

  “Gamer, too,” Snapper adds.

  Again, Byrdie feigns surprise. “Aw, hell.”

  “Doc. Woody. Popeye. Jonesy.”

  He rattles the names off like a machine gun, one after another. With each name, Byrdie’s mouth opens a bit wider. By the time Snapper is done, his jaw is sagging.

  It is as close to stunned as a man that looks like he does can manage.

  Especially one that already knows every word being shared.

  “Jesus...all of them?”

  Snapper lifts the cup, pausing just long enough to mutter, “Yup.”

  Moving closer, Byrdie drops himself down by Snapper’s knee. Forearm draped across the tabletop, he stares out, pretending to be dazed by the news.

  Even as he can still smell the gunpowder and smoke hanging thick in the cramped space of the Ogo’s kitchen. See Ringer’s blood as it pooled across the linoleum floor, caused by the bullet Byrdie placed between his eyes.

  “Clady?” he asks, flicking his gaze up to Snapper.

  Snapper lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe. Probably. Everybody that was there died, so all we have is my contact with SDPD.”

  Filling in the blanks, Byrdie asks, “And they don’t know jack shit?”

  “Close to it,” Snapper concedes. “Said there were two shooters, but that’s about it.”

  Again, images from the night before flit across Byrdie’s mind. Sneaking up behind the home and putting down Woody by the rear gate. Shooting Gamer in the back of the head as he stepped inside.

  Finishing Ringer and snatching Valerie Ogo’s cellphone number from the blonde guy that had shot the other three.

  “Clady and the big guy? From the house the other day?”

  Again, Snapper shrugs. “Yesterday after you left, Ringer got a call from the woman.” His gaze shifts to Byrdie and back again. “Not the old woman, the one with the purse strings. Told him to stand down on the house, she was bringing in a pro.”

  Ignoring Snapper’s phrasing of how things went the day before, Byrdie instead winnows in on the back half of the statement. A single sentence that answers several of the questions he’s been playing on loop for the last eight hours.

  Who the blonde guy at the house was. Why Ringer and the others had showed up. Why the two sides immediately descended into open warfare.

  Not sure how to best respond - or even if he should - Byrdie stares straight ahead. He adds the new information to what he already had, allowing it to meld into some form of a working plan.

  Slowly, he shifts his gaze up to Snapper.

  “Listen, I know what happened yesterday was some shit. I’m still plenty pissed about it, but you know I wouldn’t go after the vest that way.”

  To that, Snapper doesn’t reply. After the night he’s had, it appears his brain is firing a step or two slow, his eyes glazed.

  “Hell,” Byrdie continues, “once I picked my ass up out of the sand and got cleaned up, I spent most of the night out looking for Clady myself.”

  Raising a hand to his scalp, he runs his palm back over the swath of long hair stretched from one temple to the other.

  “Me letting him get away was what started this mess. Figured if I could find him and bring him in...”

  Not wanting to overplay things, he lets his voice drift away. He again fixes his gaze on the parking lot, staring at the pair of motorcycles parked side by side.

  For more than two solid minutes, neither man says a word, silence settling between them.

  A silence that is eventually broken by Snapper saying, “That’s actually why I called you this morning.”

  The time difference between Sasebo Naval Base and San Diego was seventeen hours. Nearly three-quarters of a day difference between Japan and California, meaning that the world outside was still completely dark as I sat down in front of the computer. Already dressed for the day, I was the only one crazy enough to be up at such a time, eschewing another hour of precious sleep for this infinitely-more-precious opportunity.

  One of the rare few I’d had since arriving two months prior.

  Despite the secured lab being outfitted with more than a dozen systems like the one before me, not another soul was present. If not for the single row of elongated tube lightbulbs overhead, the place would be nearly cloaked in darkness, my monitor the only one currently up and active.

  Right leg hammering up and down at a frenetic pace, I entered my credentials. Made my way past the opening screens and went directly into the video chat program.

  Entered the number from memory, holding my breath as I hit send.

  Sitting alone in the quiet room, I counted off the seconds. Again ran the math, confirming that it was still mid-morning back at home.

  Felt my heart rate increase with each successive ring, hoping I hadn’t missed my target.

  A fear that thankfully dissipated moments later as the screen before me sprang to life, front and center upon it the beautiful face of my Mira.

  Holding her phone in hand, the view was from the bottom up, starting at her chest and tilted slightly toward her chin. Wobbling slightly, I could see that she was already dressed for the day. Hair curled. Tiny bit of makeup on.

  Pale straps of a yellow sundress against tan skin.

  “Kyle?!” she called out, voice elevated slightly. Being the only one in the lab, I hadn’t bothered with the headphones, letting it pipe directly in through the speakers.

  Spill into the open space around me, giving the momentary feeling that she was there beside me.

  And not actually more than five thousand miles away.

  “Hey there,” I replied.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her initial smile fading just slightly. “Is everything okay?”

  “Of course,” I replied. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  The camera shifted slightly as she turned. A gust of wind passed through the speaker, sounding out in time with her dark curls blowing back from her neck.

  “Uh, because it’s like four in the morning there.”

  Flicking my eyes to the digits in the corner of the screen, I raised my eyebrows slightly. “Meh, more like four-thirty.”

  “Oh, well, in that case,” she answered, a smile growing wide. A megawatt grin that seemed to spread most of the way across her cheeks.

  An expression that – as cheesy as I knew it sounded, even in my own ears – couldn’t help but pull away whatever line I was about to say next.

  Two long months, I had been without that smile. And the sleepy one that greeted me in the morning. And the chuckling one that she used whenever I said something she thought was inherently absurd.

  And a dozen other different variations that I had pulled back to mind no less than a hundred times a day.

  “Well,” I managed, forcing myself back into the present, knowing I had but a few short minutes, “I wanted to call and wish you a happy birthday!”

  Her expression shifted, this time from the beaming grin to a playful half-smile. “My birthday isn’t until tomorrow,
silly.”

  “Ah, but it is tomorrow here,” I replied. “And this way, I get to be first.”

  “You should be sleeping,” she admonished, pulling the phone a bit closer to give me a pointed stare.

  A look she managed to maintain for only a few seconds before again succumbing to a smile.

  “Eh,” I replied, “it’s not that early. We have a training exercise at first light this morning anyway, so it’s not like I missed out on much.”

  Stepping back out of the sunlight, a shadow crossed over her. The breeze died away, her hair falling still on either side of her neck.

  “Still sweetie, you should be sleeping. You look so tired. And have you lost weight again?”

  While neither was something I wanted to dwell on, I couldn’t rightly say they were wrong. As such things tended to go while out on deployment.

  Even if Japan was considered one of the better places to be stationed.

  “Remind me again why I called so early? Was it just to have you tell me I look haggard and emaciated?”

  “I never said...” she began, her voice falling away as she glanced to the side. Offering me an exasperated shake of the head, she asked, “But seriously, how are you? And when are you coming back to me?”

  Chapter Seven

  The interior of Central District precinct Captain Mel Friedlander’s office smells like what Detective Malcolm Marsh imagines the inside of a tea strainer does. Like it has been immersed in hot water and aromatic leaves every single morning for the last five years, a perfunctory rinse being the closest it has ever gotten to a proper cleaning.

  The scent of lavender threatens to overwhelm. It is so strong, Marsh can almost feel it seeping into his clothes.

  Yet another thing he is not in the mood for as he sits and stares straight ahead.

  Three feet away, Friedlander is oblivious. Reclined in his leather chair, his body is turned to the side, one ankle raised to the opposite thigh. In his hand is an enormous metal thermos, a white tag hanging over the side.