"Up top, clear?"
"Clear.” Sophie yelled down, her voice pure and strong. A knot that I didn't even know existed threatened to unwind itself in my chest, and I clamped down on it savagely. There would be time for the shakes later. I had one more job to do.
"Secure the area," I told Patrick, "keep an eye out for cops."
Before he could answer I turned and jogged down the dock toward the car, which I saw was resting on two flat tires with at least three bodies around it. I raised my UMP and ran harder, looking for Edgar Villalobos. El Patron was crawling, a wound in his left leg, while his bodyguards wouldn't be getting up ever again. One was on the concrete with a neat hole in his chest, the other was still behind the wheel of his car, slumped over a crimson Rorschach blot that came from his chest.
Villalbos saw me coming up, turning onto his back and crab crawling with his right foot. He reached for the pistol in an underarm holster, but stopped when he saw me tighten the grip on my UMP. "Fuck," he muttered through gritted teeth when he realized who'd attacked him. "You."
"Good evening, Patron," I said, looking down at him as I came up. I reached into his jacket and relieved him of his pistol, a pretty nice looking .357 Magnum, and chucked it into the sea. "Tell me why I shouldn't shoot you now."
"Like anything I say would change your mind," Villalobos replied. "You aren't the type to factor my words into your decisions. You know, I thought you'd been the one to pull that shit to my knee in Filmore, but damn my luck anyways."
I looked down at the man, my finger twitching on the trigger of my weapon. I knew what would be easy, putting a burst into his head. He'd probably thank me if I did, as it would be a lot kinder than what he'd get in prison. On the outside, he was in control of a street gang. On the inside, at least in our state, the Latin Kings weren't a strong presence. He'd end up being someone's bitch most likely.
I shook my head and lowered the barrel. "You're right, I made up my mind already. I don't care how much money you've got saved up, or what strings you think Francine Berkowitz is going to pull for you to get you off, it's not going to be enough to keep you out of jail for a long damn time."
"So that's how you found out. Who squealed? The Union or one of my men? Tell me that at least," Villalobos hissed, pulling himself up to a sitting position against his car. "Fuck, your sniper's good. Where the fuck did you find him? SEALs? Rangers? FBI?"
"Listening to movie music in a nightclub actually," I replied, "but as to your first question, neither. I had Berkowitz's condo tapped. I've got resources too. But let me clue you in on something. Cops are going to come and interrogate you. Now, you and I both know you're dirty enough they can pin you to probably a good dozen or more Class A felonies from tracking the guns around this car and down by your soldiers. And of course, a bunch of them have outstanding warrants too. Despite what you may think, Berkowitz isn't going to spend Union money saving your ass. She'll save herself, but let you rot down at Central Holding until they get done arraigning you, then send you to County. You'll never see a Union lawyer the entire time."
"So that's your game," Villalobos replied. "You want me to flip on her. Why?"
"She pissed me off, that's all you need to know," I replied. Time for a little bit of lies, priming the pump and sealing Francine's fate. "Besides, you know I've been trying to clean up the city. I would have left you and Filmore alone longer, she was always my main target. That is, if she hadn't overreached."
“You motherfucker," Villalobos muttered to himself, cursing his luck and fate. "How many of my boys are dead?"
"Hopefully just the ones here," I replied. “Why, think you'll have a chance to carry enough soldiers in with you to protect your sphincters?"
"Never know," Edgar said, then smiled. "But I ain't becoming no bitch. Might be perforated, but I am not going to be someone's bitch boy."
"Good luck with that," I said. I turned and walked away, leaving behind the fallen king of Latin Kings.
"What's the view?" I asked Sophie over the radio as I approached the scene of the biggest portion of the battle. Patrick was using zip ties to bind the men he could, although three of them had bullet wounds so he was binding around the wounds. He just wanted to keep them from running away into the night.
"Scanner is saying the cops are on their way, I'd give an ETA of five minutes," Sophie replied. The Docks was the sort of neighborhood that wouldn't get a fast response unless it was to certain areas, and Pier 32 wasn't a high priority response area. "We should move."
"Two minutes," I said. I knelt next to Patrick, who was using a chain of three strips to zip tie a wounded Latin King to the handle of his car. "How're they looking?"
"The wounds aren't life threatening," Patrick replied. "How about over there?"